


White Fabergé Lilies

by LucyCrewe11 (Raphaela_Crowley)



Category: Anastasia (1997)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Character Death, Drama, Drama & Romance, F/M, Family Feels, Historical Fantasy, Historical Figures, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:27:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 54
Words: 171,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25516510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raphaela_Crowley/pseuds/LucyCrewe11
Summary: Dimitri the kitchen boy becomes a companion to Alexei and remains on with the doomed Romanov family through the Russian Revolution. Somewhere along the way, a romance silently blooms.Who will survive?
Relationships: Dimitri | Dmitry/Anya | Anastasia Romanov (Anastasia 1997 & Broadway)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	1. Prologue: Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Written May 2014 - May 2018 (with one major hiatus in the middle)
> 
> A/N: This is a historical(ish) AU fanfic based on the Don Bluth children's movie, Anastasia, but this is not a children's story. This contains violence, some gore, some language, and strong thematic elements.
> 
> There are eventual character deaths.
> 
> Should be fine for ages thirteen and up, but reader discretion is advised.

White Fabergé Lilies

An _Anastasia_ Fanfiction 

_Prologue_

The Romanovs were celebrating the 300th anniversary of their family's rule. A grand party was in full swing at the palace in Saint Petersburg. Women in glittering jewels giggled demurely as handsome gentlemen with flaxen mustaches and dark eyes handed them sparkling glasses of bubbling champagne. Officers and guards bowed deeply and made gracious chit-chat; great ladies danced as lustily as ballerinas, if a little more stiffly for all the emphasis put on good posture and ramrod-straight backs hammered into their psyches.

It was at this magical ball, lifted straight out of a Russian Cinderella story, that Anastasia, youngest daughter of Tsar Nicholas, watched eagerly for her grandmother's arrival.

No sign of the dear old lady yet, she grew restless and badgered her sisters into dancing with her until their feet ached and they – ignoring her protests, and the faces she pulled at them, both pleading and mocking – sat down. Even Maria, who would have cut off her own right arm if it would have done her little sister any good, gave way to exhaustion and plopped herself into one of the miniature thrones in front of the grander one, saved – tonight, anyway – for their grandmother's use.

But Anastasia, who wasn't a bit tired, was saved from having to sit out the next dance by Nicholas himself, who laughed and called her _Shvibzik_ , sweeping her up off the floor.

As they spun, Anastasia noticed her mother standing to her father's right, laughing. Oh, how _beautiful_ she looked, dressed in a splendid blue-and-gold outfit just like her daughters'!

Mama didn't have a headache today! Mama was going to dance with them. For _once_ she was going to be merry and delightful, and everybody would see what poor mama was really like, when she wasn't too ill to be in public!

Anastasia was so happy, she felt full to bursting.

Her joy only increased when at last she spotted her grandmother walking up the dais, waving. "Hello, Darling!"

Still in the air, Anastasia laughed, "Oh, Papa!"

As soon as she was set down, Anastasia ran to her sisters. "Quick, Tatiana! Where's that picture I drew for Grandmama?"

"I don't know," yawned Tatiana, waving a pearl-crusted fan in front of her face. "Can't you keep track of your own things?"

"Where did you last see it?" Maria asked, eager to help, lifting herself up and swirling her skirts, as if she expected her sister's lost drawing to fall out of the folds.

" _I've_ got your picture, Anastasie," her eldest sister Olga told her, holding it out. "But I don't think you should give it to Grandmama."

She put her hands on her hips, indignant. "Why not?"

"Because, little imp," laughed Olga, "it looks like a pig riding a donkey."

"It does _not_!" Anastasia stamped her foot.

"All right, but don't say I didn't warn you." Olga held out the picture to her.

Maria smiled kindly. " _I_ think it's a nice picture."

"Alexei can draw better than that," sighed Tatiana, taking Olga's part.

Anastasia snatched it as roughly as she could without tearing it, let out a frustrated huff, and rushed past their thrones to her grandmother, holding out the picture.

"Oh, thank you, my darling!" Her grandmother smiled enthusiastically. "What a lovely drawing. And you've made it for _me_?"

She nodded rapidly.

The dowager reached out and touched her cheek. "You precious little thing! I'll keep it forever."

Anastasia looked over her shoulder at Olga and stuck out her tongue. _Ha!_ she thought smugly. That'll show her. Grandmama _loves_ it!

"Perhaps I shall even hang it on the wall when I return to Paris," she went on. "How would you like that?"

Anastasia's head whipped back around and her face became instantly crestfallen. "Do you _have_ to go?"

"You know I must."

"Please don't!" Anastasia knew it was hopeless, but she was only eight, and to an eight year old nearly anything – even a hopeless thing – is possible; if only you can make people agree and do what you want. "Stay here. Russia's so lovely. It's snowing again, and everything looks so clean and quiet and _pretty_! I bet the snow in Paris isn't half as good. And..." She thought furiously for something to add. "And you needn't worry about putting Papa out for four o'clock rations, because I'll give you half of _my_ tea. I won't be a bit hungry, because there's always a great deal more food at lunch and breakfast we can both fill up on. Oh, say you'll stay! _Please_."

Without another word, the dowager reached into her silk-lined purse and pulled out a gold-and-green box about the size of her fist.

Anastasia gasped. "For _me_?" She took it in her hands, holding it gingerly between her fingertips as if it were glass. "Is it a jewelry box?"

A few feet away, a curious boy was watching them, eating an apple he'd taken the liberty of pilfering.

It was at this point that an upper servant spotted him. "Dimitri! You belong in the kitchen!"

For what it was worth, Dimitri wasn't going easily. He was carried off kicking and flailing, inwardly bemoaning the loss of the apple as it fell to the ground. Cook was going to be angry anyway, possibly even punish him, so he might as well drag this out.

"Look." The dowager took out a necklace with a gleaming round pendant and pressed it into the box, turning it in a clockwise motion.

The circular lid opened, revealing dancing miniatures of Anastasia's mama and papa spinning in front of a crowned white swan with its wings spread out.

A tune accompanied the dancers. At once, Anastasia knew it.

"It plays our lullaby!" she cried out in delight.

"You can play it at night before you go to sleep," the dowager told her. "And pretend it is _me_ singing."

Anastasia beamed. Her grandmother took her hand and spun her in time with the tinkling music.

The lid closed on its own, young Alexandra and Nicholas sinking back into their golden box, ending the song.

"Read what it says." The dowager handed her the necklace.

Screwing up her face and crossing her eyes to focus, Anastasia squinted at the little pendant. "Together...in...Paris..." she got out, with some difficulty. Realization dawned. " _Really_?" She flung herself into her grandmother's arms. "Oh, Grandmama!"

In less than three minutes the dowager was assuring her that yes, of course Maria could come too, and yes she could bring her dog Pooka if she really wanted.

"When?" she asked, pulling away. "Oh, do tell me when!"

"Soon, my darling, soon. Maybe I'll even take you back with me when I go. How would you like that?"

"Will you ask Mama tonight?"

"I'll ask your _papa_ tomorrow morning," she corrected her.

The dowager loved her entire family, but she and Alexandra had never gotten on particularly well. It was all too obvious that, at the very mention of one of her precious children (possibly _two_ , since Anastasia didn't like to be separated from Maria) being taken away to Paris, even just for a mere visit, Alexandra was likely to go into hysterics.

If Nicky spoke to her first, reassuring her that it was only for a little while, all might be well.

She'd have loved to take Alexei, too, so she could watch the three little ones tear around her royal garden and fill that all too quiet Paris palace with laughter, but such was as impossible as she herself staying here for good. Alexandra would never forgive her – or even Nicholas, love of her life though he was – if they took her baby, her little sunbeam, from her.

And, naturally, there was his health to think of. The poor boy had inherited the bleeding disease, and if he bumped himself in the palace and his blood refused to clot, pooling into joints and out of even the smallest scrape on his skin, his grandmother had to admit she would not quite know what to do. She doubted those sweet little girls, his adoring youngest sisters, would know either. So it was best not to put them in that situation.

She would speak to her son at breakfast tomorrow. Preferably before Alexandra came down. This in itself would be easy enough; Alexandra always had a hard time getting up in the morning, whereas both she and Nicholas were early risers.

* * *

Dimitri had escaped from the kitchen again. Unfortunately, his apple was long gone. Already rolled away somewhere. His stomach gurgled. He wasn't going to be getting much supper – if any – tonight.

Not when Cook found out he'd snuck into the Romanov party _twice_...

Across the room, so far out he almost didn't dare even _dream_ of getting in that deep unnoticed, there were two tables set with white silk tablecloths and big silver trays full of all sorts of pastries and other delicacies Dimitri was never allowed to taste.

Oh, how _good_ it looked! God, he'd sell his soul to Baba Yaga herself for just a couple bites of vatrushka!

Surely no one would notice just one going missing?

Maybe not, but they _would_ see a shabbily dressed boy sticking out like a sore thumb.

Unless... There _were_ a lot of younger men of small stature here tonight, brought along with their courtly fathers and elder brothers. Supposing he just borrowed a fancy coat (he knew which room they were being kept in) and shuffled out there and got himself a vatrushka?

Smiling mischievously to himself, Dimitri spun around on his heels and ran off to get a coat. He avoided the most lavish, since he was trying _not_ to draw attention to himself, though even the simplest one he could find was lined with real black bear fur.

It trailed at his feet, like a short train at a funeral procession or an undertaker's wedding, but he ignored that and prayed no one would notice. He'd decided if anyone asked who he was, he'd tell them he was Alexei Romanov.

The Tsarevich was actually over four years _younger_ than he was, but he hoped not everyone present here would know that. At least, not off the top of their heads. By the time they remembered Nicholas had only had a male heir for five years, he could be back in the kitchen, scrubbing pots and pans, blending in with the other servants.

* * *

The stolen pastry had barely touched Dimitri's lips when a small voice from beside his knee chirruped, "You there!"

Taking a rushed, oversized bite, Dimitri mumbled, mouth so full cottage cheese was coming out the corners, "It's okay, I'm Alexei Romanov."

"No you aren't!" cried the voice, somewhere between indignant and amused. " _I_ am."

Dimitri swallowed, horrified by his own stupidity. He glanced guiltily down at the richly-dressed, serious-faced boy. "Uh..."

Alexei burst into unexpected laughter. "You're funny! How _do_ you make your whole face go green like that? The filling makes it look like you are foaming at the mouth. How clever of you!"

Was this _not_ the part where he was hauled off to an execution for stealing food and impersonating the Tsarevich? Dimitri could only gawk.

"I had a dog once who foamed at the mouth. His name was Joy. Papa had to shoot him." Apparently oblivious to the continued stricken expression on the kitchen boy's face, Alexei kept prattling on. "I think it would be just _awful_ to be shot, even if it was to keep someone – or something – else alive, don't you? I cried more because of _that_ – the thought of the bullet in my doggie's head – than losing Joy in the first place."

"I have to go, your highness," Dimitri tried.

Alexei grabbed onto his hand, ignoring this. "Can you make that face again? Your face isn't so green now. I want you to show Ana."

"Ana?" he repeated dumbly.

"My _sister_ ," Alexei said, rather slowly and precociously, as though he suddenly suspected his new amusement was short on brains. "She makes the best funny faces. But _she_ can't make her face green. Mashka turned green once when she ate too many chocolates, only that wasn't funny. Not even when she threw up on Gilliard. It stank too bad to be funny. Mama was real upset."

"I don't want to meet anyone," said Dimitri. "I...I'm not really a guest here." The game was already up. What else could he do? At least he was throwing himself on the mercy of a seemingly innocent child and not a furious adult with access to a royal firing squad.

"Course not." Alexei regarded him almost coldly. "You have soot stains on your breeches under that coat. Ana won't care, though. _I_ don't." He gestured across the ballroom to where Anastasia Romanov was playing with the music box Dimitri had seen the dowager empress give her earlier. "Let's go."

"Alexei?" a shrill voice cried, aghast. "What are you doing out of bed? Mama said you need your rest."

"Oh, poo, it's Governess!" Alexei squeezed Dimitri's hand with a shockingly vice-like grip for such a frail little boy. "She's seen me!"

A remarkably beautiful girl – her face so pretty it hurt to look at it directly for too long – was coming towards them, wearing the same dress as Anastasia Romanov. Why should a governess be allowed to wear matching clothes to a grand duchess? And wasn't she a little _young_ to be in charge of the children?

" _She_ is your governess?" Dimitri was forgetting himself. He'd never seen such a lovely, finely clothed lady so close up before.

"No, stupid, she's my second sister!" Alexei started tugging at him now. "Come on, we've got to get out of here!"

"What?"

"Come on! This way! If we wait any longer she'll _catch_ us!"

Dimitri was helpless; he allowed Alexei to lead him off, out of the room, into some marble vestibule he'd never been in before. He was panting when the Tsarevich finally let go of his hand and let him stop at the base of a cold, gleaming staircase.

" _Why_ ," he gasped out, leaning heavily against the banister and kneeling on the last step, "do you call your sister _Governess_?"

Alexei looked proud. "It was Ana's idea. Tatiana likes bossing us around; it's the same as having Mama or a tutor watching you, having _her_ about."

Dimitri nodded. It might get a person into trouble, not at least _pretending_ to agree with the statements of the future Tsar. Even if he was just a little pipsqueak now.

"Play with me," the Tsarevich ordered next.

"I..."

"Let's slide down the banister!" He started climbing the stairs, looking over his shoulder and motioning for Dimitri to follow. "Come on."

Dimitri found himself smiling as he took off the fur coat and climbed after Alexei. This royal kid might be a little bratty, but there was something endearing about him all the same. He'd never had a brother, his parents having died when he – their first and only child – was very small. Part of him always wondered what it would be like having an underling about. Or even just another little boy around to play with on those ever-rarer days off.

With a whoop of delight, Alexei slid down, arms out to the sides like an eagle. " _Yeep-piiiiiiiiiiiiieeee_!"

Dimitri began to laugh. Then the crash came and he stopped mid-cackle. Something was horribly wrong. The Tsarevich was lying on the ground by the last step, holding his knee and crying, "Mama! Oh, God, _Mama_! Tatya! Papa!" His cries became worse, tears streaming down his face as he howled.

Dimitri jumped down the stairs, taking two steps at a time to get to the boy as quickly as possible. "What's wrong?"

"My knee," sobbed the boy. "My _knee_..."

* * *

A dark shadow fell upon the ballroom. Some of the guests gasped, stepping out of the way of a tall figure in monk's robes with a little white bat on his shoulder and a glowing reliquary slapping against his hip.

One woman's hands shook so badly she dropped her wineglass on the floor.

The figure, grinning evilly, his eyes wild, didn't even bother going around the broken glass. His boots came down hard, grinding their shards into sharp dust.

His name was Rasputin. Not so very long ago, the Romanovs had thought him to be a holy man – one with a divine power they desperately needed – but he was a fraud; power-mad and dangerous.

Tsar Nicholas approached, looking furious. "How dare you return to the palace!"

Rasputin feigned shock. "But... I am your confidant."

"Confidant?" snorted Nicholas. "Ha! You are a _traitor_!" He stretched out his hand. " _Get out_!"

"You think you can banish the great Rasputin," he fumed, lifting up his reliquary, his already frightening face made worse by the spreading green light. "By the unholy powers vested in me, I banish _you_. With a _curse_!"

Back up on the dais with the dowager, perhaps to thank her one more time for the music box before she was sent off to bed, Anastasia gasped at this threat and reached for her grandmother's hands. She didn't notice that only a few inches from darling Grandmama's throne, was Dimitri, also shell-shocked by Rasputin's words. He'd come running back for help after Alexei's injured knee began to swell and turn purple.

"Mark my words," continued Rasputin, pointing emphatically at Nicholas. "You and your family will die within the following decade." Lifting the reliquary even higher, he aimed it at a golden chandelier. "I will not rest until I see the end of the Romanov line forever!" Green light shot out of the reliquary, sending the chandelier crashing down.

Maria and Tatiana grabbed onto their mother, pressing against her sides. Maria was crying. Rasputin had always frightened her the most. She was a sensitive little thing; even when he was supposed to be their friend, she had seen no compassion in his eyes.

"You'll be all right, my treasures," Alexandra whispered. She tightened her grip on Tatiana's waist protectively, ignoring the wet feel of Maria's snot pooling on her skirt. "Don't listen to him. Don't listen to a single word. Pray. Pray for his misguided soul. God will protect us."

Olga clung to no one. She only watched her Papa intently, fists clenched. He had never let her – or her sisters and brother – down before. She was sure he would not – _could_ not – do so now. He'd stop Rasputin. He _would_!

"I will not stand for this!" cried one guest, who happened to be a distant relation to the Romanovs. He drew a pistol from his fur-lined boot and pointed it.

For one horrible moment, Olga thought – perhaps irrationally, perhaps prophetically – the gun was for her father. That they were angry Rasputin had not been imprisoned or sentenced to death for his treason, even having left open the _chance_ that he might come back to the palace like this, and they wanted to kill Nicholas for it. Even if it made them traitors, too.

She rushed forward. "Papa!"

If she hadn't come running, she wouldn't have seen – at least not at such close range. The bullets hitting Rasputin again and again, hot blood splattering and pooling everywhere and the unholy creature from hell not even sinking to his knees, still standing like a pillar.

One blood splatter hit her left cheek. It was too much for her. Tatiana might have been all right, or Anastasia, who had the strongest stomach of them all, but Olga couldn't handle it.

She felt her knees giving way, even as Rasputin's refused.

Strong arms grasped her, holding her up. "It's all right, child, it's all right. I've got you."

She glimpsed a vaguely familiar face – that of Vladimir, a member of the imperial court who had always been kind to her and her siblings, once slipping candies into Anastasia and Alexei's coat pockets for them to find later, but of whom she personally knew very little – before her world went black.

" _Olenka_!" The Tsarina sounded anguished. "Tatiana, take Marie." Letting go of Tatiana's waist, Alexandra rose up and pushed her daughters together. "And for God's sake don't watch."

Maria shut her eyes tight and locked her arms around Tatiana's waist.

Lifting her skirts, Alexandra made a run for the wounded yet unfallen Rasputin, snatching the reliquary and dropping it. When it didn't shatter, she stamped on it with her gem-encrusted heels. With each stamp, she made an accusation. "This is for Alexei! This is for Russia!" Cracks appeared. One more stamp would finish the job. "And _this_... This is for _you_ , Our Friend, Messenger of God! Hell is where you will rot for your blasphemy and treason."

Blood was already coming out of his mouth, but it wasn't until the light went out of the broken reliquary that it went out of his eyes as well.

* * *

Although many of the guests were engaged in a heated dispute over what to do with Rasputin's body and blood, it soon wasn't _Rasputin's_ blood Nicholas was concerned about.

Alexei had had to be helped into bed, his cries having turned to pitiful moans of the sort no child that age should ever have a reason to let out, the doctor called in, the girls privately herded out of the ruined ball and into their brother's bedroom (except for Olga, who'd been carried to her own bed), and now something had to be done about this kitchen boy.

This kitchen boy who now knew the Romanov family's deepest, darkest secret. This kitchen boy whose head held the knowledge that Russia's future Tsar was a hemophiliac.

Nicholas rubbed his forehead, troubled. "What are we going to do, Sunny?"

Alexandra was busy smoothing a lock of Alexei's hair. "Try and lie still, Baby."

"Sunny!"

"Nicky, our son is in pain! I will discuss no one's fate in front of my ailing child. Do you _want_ to get his pulse racing? Baby sleeps, _then_ we talk about that devilish playmate he found from God knows where."

I'm _dead_ , thought Dimitri, overhearing this. Deader than dead.

The Tsarina had barely looked at him, and never directly, but from those glances out of the corner of her eye, it wasn't hard to gather that all she was thinking was how _dare_ he – some no account rascal – all put push her precious baby boy down the stairs! Who did he think was?

Here was not a woman who would believe him if he told her the truth: that Alexei slid down the banister of his own free will. Dimitri would have hated her for that, but it was hard not to admire a woman who could fearlessly smash a reliquary under her heel to protect her family.

He had not been permitted to sit, but he could still lean against the wall, pressing his head back against the plaster, awaiting his certain death.

Something landed at his feet. A tiny piece of chocolate wrapped in silver foil. Someone had thrown it at him.

No, _to_ him...

Dimitri glanced up to see one of the princesses hurrying to rejoin her sisters, glued to their mother's side.

At first he thought it was Anastasia, but he could hear her music box playing in the Tsarevich's room, less than three feet away. Probably to try and keep Alexei's mind off his pain.

It must have been the second youngest, the grand duchess Maria.

She _did_ have a reputation for kindness, even among the servants, just as Anastasia had a reputation for mischief, but why should she be kind to _him_? Especially since, to all appearances, he'd just about _killed_ her little brother.

Whatever the reason, Dimitri unwrapped the chocolate, grateful, and let it melt on his tongue.

A last meal. Or last _taste_ , more like.

Either way, if one had to die with just one last essence on one's tongue, chocolate wasn't such a bad choice.

* * *

"We could dismiss him," was Cook's cold suggestion. "A boy with no money and a grudge against his former employers could hardly be taken seriously. If he tells of Alexei's illness, no one will listen. Or I can personally see to it that he works nowhere of consequence again. That should help."

"That would be a death sentence," said Maria, though she wasn't supposed to be butting in, or even there at all.

The 'little pair', which was apparently what the family called Anastasia and Maria, had been ordered to bed almost twenty minutes ago. It was only the stress of the situation that prevented Alexandra from noticing their uncharacteristic (at least on Maria's part) disobedience.

Nicholas noticed, and arched a brow, as if warning Maria she'd best keep quiet if she didn't want him to openly acknowledge her presence and send her off with a scolding he didn't really wish to give.

"A death sentence – a _real_ one – might be kinder," said Botkin, the family doctor, cleaning his spectacles. "Has he no relatives?"

"Let's put him in a madhouse," suggested Anastasia, grinning impishly. "I've always wanted to say I knew somebody in an asylum!"

Nicholas shot _her_ the look now.

She crumbled and cowered. "Sorry."

If she wasn't a princess, Dimitri would have wanted to smack her. Mostly because, even with that demure apology, she didn't _look_ sorry. Not one bit.

"He has no relatives I've ever known of," Cook assured them. "No mother or father, that much is certain."

Vladimir came into the room now, though it was clear enough he'd been listening in the doorway for most of the conversation up to this point.

"Oh, it is you." Alexandra gave him one of her rare, appreciative smiles. "Thank you for what you did for Olga earlier."

"It was my pleasure, Your Majesty," he said, bowing. "I hope she will quickly recover."

"We'll send Botkin to examine her to be sure, but hopefully it was only a bad case of nerves," Alexandra said. "I'm surprised Marie managed not to faint."

"How is the Tsarevich?"

"Resting, at last," she sighed. "Now we must settle on what is to be done with this unruly servant."

"I should say unfortunate as much as unruly, if you would pardon my saying so," spoke Vladimir boldly. "Perhaps if the boy promises to keep quiet..."

"How could we be sure he would keep his word?" asked Alexandra.

"Could we trust him on it?" added Nicholas warily.

" _I_ wouldn't," said Cook.

Dimitri's anger turned from Anastasia, who was only a playful girl after all, not a true enemy, to Cook's cruelty. He glared daggers at the man he assumed was now his former employer. Whatever happened next, death or not, he was surely not to be kept on in the kitchens after this screw up.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Anastasia sticking her tongue out at the cook, and immediately liked her again, forgiving her completely now.

"Perhaps the accident," suggested Vladimir, "occurred because the Tsarevich is over-eager for another boy to play with. He has only his sisters – and his English cousins, when he is well enough to travel. Could it not be a good thing if the boy was kept on as a sort of companion?"

Alexandra was already shaking her head rapidly. If Vladimir had not helped Olga earlier, she'd have been furious with him and sent him from the room for his impertinence. The idea that Alexei, her precious Sunbeam, should have a companion so unsuited, so randomly falling into their circle... It was monstrous!

But Nicholas, for once, thought differently. He was used to not thinking at all, when he didn't need to, and letting Alexandra have her way, yet in this case it was his son's well-being alone he was concerned with. Not so much his wife's feelings on the matter. He might feel guilty for being so callous towards the love of his life's opinion later, but right now he harbored no such self-reproach.

"He _does_ need a peer group, Alix," he said quietly.

"But this waif is no peer group; he's only a kitchen boy," piped Tatiana, putting her hand on her mother's shoulder.

If she had said it meanly, with contempt, as most royals might have said something like that, she'd have seemed cruel, but she hadn't spoken that way at all. She'd said it only as if stating a practical fact. It did make her look less beautiful somehow, though, very like a no-nonsense school mistress, and Dimitri finally thought he understood why her siblings called her Governess.

"I can't vouch for him," said Cook, sucking his teeth. "If you make an idle companion of him, he'll quickly become lazy and spoiled. He has the temperament for that. You won't get him to remember his place for long. Soon he'll be acting as if he was a Tsarevich himself."

"He needn't be idle," said Botkin. "I can use assistance with medicines when I am in the palace, and any assistant of mine would need some training. I won't have some unstudied _idiotka_ handing me medicines. He'll not have a degree, or be able to work anywhere else, but it _would_ be something to remind him he is still a servant. Not a royal child by adoption, like this is a reward for his poor behavior."

Nicholas nodded. "This is good. The boy shall become a member of the household servants." He turned to Dimitri. "Your place will be with Alexei from now on, and you shall only go into the kitchens when we are short-handed or Botkin has no current task for you. Your presence within the family is to center on Alexei. Give him attention and friendship, then go about your other duties when he – or another member of my family – dismisses you. It is of course a given that you will not tell a single soul of the Tsarevich's condition."

* * *

Anastasia was not supposed to be in her brother's bed. Alexandra was too afraid she would bump him accidentally and make his injury worse. But all four girls loved Alexei dearly, and Anastasia was his particular favorite, since she didn't refuse him anything that was deemed 'not good for his health'. So she had not be able to say no when asked for her to sneak back in and keep him company. He had several medicines for pain coursing through him now, that made him both groggy and unable to fall asleep properly.

Still, at least it was warm and comfortable, half-dozing with Anastasia's arms around him.

Her feet had been cold when she first came in, but they were as toasty as his own now, and he didn't mind occasionally brushing up against them once they reached room temperature.

Something hit the window, making Alexei jolt up, raising his sister with him. "Ana! _Listen_! There's something at the window!"

She yawned and pulled her arms back. "It's the snow."

"Snow doesn't make noise."

"Wind, then."

"You sound like Tatiana." He pushed her lightly. "Look! There _is_ something there, too big to be a snowflake."

Anastasia got up and tip-toed to the window, unlatching it.

"A Romanov!" cried the little creature that fell in, over the sill.

"It's Rasputin's bat!" Alexei exclaimed.

"Don't worry, I'll kill it." Anastasia ran to the fireplace and grabbed a poker, brandishing it like a sword.

"Hey, what's with all the killing, little Romanov?" said the bat, looking dismayed. "What did I ever to do you?"

"You worked for Rasputin," said Anastasia simply, swinging the poker like a stage-actor. "He tried to hurt my brother. And he let Mama think he could _cure_ him! And you helped!"

"Oh, sure, blame the bat, what the heck, we're easy targets." All he'd ever really done was perch on his master's shoulder and try to look menacing.

Anastasia felt herself lowering the poker. Now that they were conversing, it was getting harder to want to kill this creature. "But your master did try and kill us. He cursed us before he died today."

"Well, I _told_ him it wasn't a good idea. I said we should just go for the party, but he was all, _let's crush the Romanovs_." The bat's white wings lifted in a shrug. "And now he's dead. Dead, dead, dead."

"He won't come back to life?" Anastasia whispered, as if a little afraid.

"Not after they pitched his body in that frozen river back there."

"What's your name?" Alexei called from bed.

"Bartok."

"I'm Alexei." He pointed to his sister. "She's Anastasia."

Bartok bowed.

"It must be cold out there," Anastasia noted, shivering.

"Oh, it is," Bartok agreed.

"Are you all alone now?" she asked.

"As alone as a bat can get."

"Then you will be _my_ bat," decided Alexei. "Bring him here, Ana. He can sleep in my pocket."

"I don't know–" began Bartok, stopping as Anastasia scooped him up. "Uh, okay."

"I like bats," Alexei said somberly as Anastasia slipped Bartok into the breast pocket of his sleeping shirt. "Sleep tight, Bartok. Don't let the bed bugs bite, Ana."

Looking at the sleeping children, Bartok considered flying away the minute their eyes shut, but something held him back. They didn't _look_ evil; no matter what Rasputin had always said about the wickedness of all Romanovs. And it _was_ pretty warm and snugly here. Rasputin had never let him cuddle at night, even when it was icy cold out.

He glanced both ways – as if to be sure there weren't any other bats at the window watching him, ready to start pointing and laughing – and then he lowered his head onto Alexei's gently rising and falling chest.

 _Long live the Romanovs_ , thought Bartok, as sleep overtook him.


	2. Prologue: Part Two

_Prologue: Part 2_

Dimitri had been with the Romanovs as Alexei's companion for six months.

He hadn't seen much of the princesses after the first couple of months. Olga and Tatiana were busy with their lessons most of the time, and Anastasia and Maria had returned to Paris with the dowager, despite many tears (and rants, which Dimitri felt rather embarrassed to have overheard but Alexei seemed shockingly unaffected by, casually slipping pastry crumbs to the little bat he kept in his pocket as if nothing particularly exciting was happening) on the Tsarina's part.

In the end, Nicholas had sided with his mother, and Alexandra eventually gave in, allowing the little pair to go to France.

Today, though, they were returning. A fact that Alexei seemed extremely excited about.

"We're going out to the station to meet them!" Alexei exclaimed, limping over to Dimitri to tell him all about it. "And we get to ride in our own sleigh; just you and me and Bartok on the way over, then Mashka and Ana with us on the way back to the palace. Pulled by _my_ donkey." He stopped. "Do you know how to hitch a donkey to a sleigh, Dima?"

"Yes, of course," said Dimitri, though that wasn't strictly true. He'd seen it done a couple of times, by imperial grooms, but he'd never so much as _tried_ to do such a task himself.

Or even paid particularly close attention when watching the grooms.

Luckily, a somewhat more skilled servant was on hand when Dimitri had to pay for his little fib by hitching up the donkey with no assistance, and quietly pointed to anything important he missed that could allow the donkey to get lose and the sleigh upset without alerting Alexei or the tsar to Dimitri's incompetence.

When it was finished, he mouthed a short, " _Thank you_ ," to the servant and then hopped in beside the Tsarevich, looking straight ahead as if nothing had gone wrong.

As soon as they were beyond the palace gates, Dimitri began to enjoy himself. He'd ridden in a hard wooden wagon before with Cook (it had not been a pleasurable experience), but never in a silver-and-gold sleigh with jingling bells! And he definitely hadn't been wrapped in furs during his wagon ride; his old coat of many patches had just barely succeeded in its job of keeping him from freezing to death.

The only part of him that was truly cold on this ride was his nose. And that was in no danger of being frostbitten, since whenever they stopped the procession for the tsar to come over and check that Alexei's nose was not being harmed from exposure, he – out of pure kindness, not duty – checked Dimitri's nose too.

It was a little strange to have the Tsar of all Russia tapping at your nose with his big soft leather glove, but you got used to it after the first couple times.

They reached the station – Alexei happily crying " _Whoa_ , Vanka!" and pulling back on his donkey's reins – just as the imperial train arrived.

Maria stepped off the train first. Her arms full of what looked like wrapped presents decorated with _way_ too many large red bows, she lost her balance and tripped, falling face first onto the ground before a servant rushed over to make certain she was all right, helping her back onto her feet. She'd scraped her chin up pretty badly, but aside from that she seemed fine.

Better still when she noticed the Tsar and Tsarina jumping down from their grand sleigh (a bigger version of Alexei's).

"Mama, Papa!" She dropped the presents on the ground and ran into their open arms.

Anastasia was next. She had a fine new hat, lined and decorated with what looked like reddish-orange fox fur, and a matching stole around her shoulders. She gave her coat pocket (where her music box was) a little pat, straightened out the stole, made a face at one of the train conductors, then hopped off.

She grinned widely at Nicholas and Alexandra, but it was Alexei she rushed over to first.

"Ana!"

"Alyosha!"

She accidentally elbowed Dimitri in the eye while throwing herself into the sleigh to hug her little brother.

"Anastasia!" Alexandra scolded. "You need to be more careful! You _know_ you can't hug Alexei so roughly! What if you'd bumped him too hard?"

Oh, _I'm_ fine, thought Dimitri, grouchily. She's just about put out my eye, but I'm _fine_...

"I'm sorry, Mama." Anastasia batted her eyes, fluttering her lashes dramatically.

"That only works on your Papa," Alexandra told her, cracking a smile in spite of herself. "It's good to have you back, though, darling."

Maria, untangling herself from her father's arms, slipped quietly onto the sleigh beside Dimitri, gave him a friendly smile, then leaned over him to wave to Alexei on his other side.

A minute later, Tatiana and Olga had gotten off the sleigh they'd ridden on – along with Gilliard and Botkin (whose lessons, though Dimitri's salvation, were also the bane of his existence) – and crowed around the little pair, kissing their cheeks and smoothing their hair.

* * *

For Dimitri, the ride back to the palace was not nearly as nice as the trip to the station. For one thing, even though Anastasia and Maria's crowding into the sleigh with them meant more warmth, it also meant being smushed awkwardly against a grand duchess every time Alexei's donkey turned a sharp corner. And Dimitri was right at the age when this starts to feel unnerving, but not the age that a boy knows _why_ it's unnerving.

It didn't help matters any that Anastasia and Alexei were singing _Ninety-nine Bottles Of Vodka On The Wall_ on an almost endless loop at the top of their lungs.

Dimitri didn't think they were _ever_ going to stop. Indeed, they probably _wouldn't_ have, if Alexandra hadn't overheard them when Nicholas stopped the sleighs to check on the children's noses and told Anastasia that it was a 'highly inappropriate song for a young lady' and to 'leave off' at once.

At his feet, Anastasia's slobbering gray mutt of a dog, Pooka, chased Alexei's Bartok (who had somehow gotten – or perhaps _fallen –_ out of his young master's pocket) around the bottom of the sleigh, so that it was virtually impossible to relax for longer than three seconds before feeling an animal run over your toes.

Maria endured any discomforts the ride brought her good-naturedly, seeming content enough to be on her way home again, while Alexei and Anastasia were just too happy to be back in each others' company to care about anything else; but Dimitri had a nagging feeling that – for good or (more likely) for bad – Anastasia's return was going to bring about massive changes to the routine he had finally gotten used to.

If it hadn't been for the memory of that tongue she stuck out at Cook six months ago, he might have resented her for it.

But, of course, he had to remind himself, Anastasia had far more right to be back here than _he_ did.

He wouldn't prove Cook right by letting himself get carried away.

* * *

There was an art, Anastasia decided, to sculpting the perfect snowball. One needed to put the wetter, sticky snow closer to the middle, then put the powdery stuff that most people thought wasn't any good because it fell apart too easily all around it, like sugar around a pastry.

 _This_ snowball was particularly good because it had a teensy pebble in the middle.

Anastasia hadn't considered that it might hurt anyone. She only thought it was a good shape with which to make sure her snowball was indeed a perfectly round sphere.

She was so intent on her sculpting that she hadn't even realized she'd lost her scarf and that Pooka was currently running around with it in his mouth, trailing it in several snowbanks he busily romped through.

It would have been a great deal easier, she thought, if one could kneel and work on a snowball until it was done, but Papa _would_ insist on constantly checking to make sure she and her sisters kept moving around.

He was afraid they'd freeze solid if they didn't keep their blood pumping.

And there was no respite from her sisters, who all agreed with their Papa about what the cold would do to them if they stayed in one spot too long. Even _Bartok_ gave her a lecture about it! She was getting scolded by _bats_ now! As if tutors and Mama and the big pair (Olga and Tatiana) weren't bad enough.

Finally, though, it was done, the ball of snow every bit as wonderful as Anastasia wanted it to be. She was extremely proud of it. She would have kept it in a drawer to take out on occasion and show off to people, if only it wasn't made of something that _melted_...

Well, she'd best enjoy it while it lasted, then.

How better to enjoy it than to hurl it at somebody? She smirked happily to herself, thinking over who best to throw it at.

Olga was too far away; she'd never hit her from this distance. Mashka had fallen into a snowdrift, with Papa and Gilliard currently trying to help her back up. She didn't _dare_ hit Alexei, knowing what even the slightest bruise or bump could to him.

Oh, wasn't that Tatiana, building a snowman, only a few feet away? Now _there_ was a target! No one ever tried to hit Tatiana with a snowball, usually; either because they thought she was too beautiful or else logically noted that her long legs probably meant she could get away before it made contact, thus making a front attack a waste of a good snowball.

But if Anastasia were to strike from the _side_ , while Tatiana was preoccupied with that snowman of hers...

Without further thought, already having long forgotten about the rock, she rushed over to her sister, wound up her arm, and threw.

Unfortunately, the snowball's path was blocked by Alexei's companion, Dimitri, who was (probably under Alexei's orders) carrying a top hat and a carrot over to Tatiana's snowman.

Tatiana no longer an option, thanks to the laws of basic physics, it sailed straight into the side of Dimitri's brow, instantly knocking him unconscious.

* * *

When Dimitri finally came to, almost twenty minutes later, Anastasia had been banished to her room to think about what she'd done, not even allowed Maria for company, scolded soundly by the Tsar and Tsarina _and_ Tatiana until she nearly burst into tears. She hadn't _meant_ to hurt anybody – honest she hadn't! Not to mention, Tatiana, she'd thought, needn't have carried on so, since the snowball – although _intended_ for her – had never actually hit her. _She_ wasn't the one lying unconscious, carried by a manservant of the Tsar's to the little red fainting couch in Alexei's room.

At first Dimitri had been pretty mad after waking up. How _dare_ that spoiled little princess think it was okay to give him a swelling bump on the forehead! (He had no idea, at this point, that she'd really been trying to hit her sister and he'd just gotten in the way.) He'd been trying and trying to be gracious, to remember his place, and then she had the nerve – the blasted _nerve! –_ to...

Oh, how he'd like to give her a good what-for, if she wasn't a grand duchess!

Then, passing by the little pair's room, he heard muffled crying. Immediately, his anger melted like snow in the summer. It was such pitiful crying. He could almost think Anastasia _already_ felt worse about throwing that snowball than any harsh words he'd been storing up in his head could have possibly made her feel.

"Princess?" He leaned into the room. This probably was not permitted, but he wanted to make sure she was all right. Dimitri realized the irony of this fact, though at the moment, hearing her sobs and sniffles, he didn't particularly care.

She was sitting on the middle of a camp cot, wiping at her nose with the back of her sleeve.

"They took away your bed as punishment?" Dimitri blurted, a little surprised. He'd never been in any of the rooms where the grand duchesses slept, though he'd snuck into quite a few other rooms belonging to them he wasn't technically supposed to go near out of sheer curiosity.

She shook her head and wiped at her eyes. "No, we always sleep on cots."

"I thought..." Dimitri stopped. For it wasn't one of his own thoughts, really, but something he'd overheard on one of his wagon trips beyond the palace walls with Cook. Common people liked to grumble that they were so poor they could barely afford a loaf of bread and the tsar's daughters were sleeping on feather beds. "Well, _Alexei_ has a real bed. I just assumed..."

"It's because he's sick," Anastasia explained, her tears lessening from distraction. "Otherwise Papa would make him sleep on a cot too. He says it's good for us, that grandpapa made _him_ sleep on a cot when he was a little boy."

Dimitri nodded.

Her blue eyes fixed on the lump above his brow. "I'm sorry I threw that snowball at you."

"I'm sorry you got punished for it," Dimitri admitted. "But I think you fractured part of my skull."

Rolling her – now completely dry – eyes, she muttered something that sounded like, "Boys are such babies."

"How long do you have to stay inside?"

"I'm not allowed to go out and play again until tomorrow after lessons!" She sounded rather agitated by this fact.

Dimitri felt a smirk spread across his face. "I know what might cheer you up."

"Oh?"

"I know where Princess Olga hides her diary."

Anastasia brightened like an evening star. " _Really_?"

"Yeah, Prince Alexei mentioned you were looking for it."

"Where is it?" She was practically rocking back and forth with excitement.

Dimitri quickly looked both ways, then walked all the way into the room. He leaned over the cot and whispered, "It's with her prayer books and Bibles. She puts a leather jacket over it so it looks just like them."

"Thanks!" Anastasia grinned and jumped out of the cot and onto the floor.

"You're going to look for it _now_?" he blurted.

"Yes," she said. "While they're still outside."

* * *

Anastasia was hopping up and down on a cushioned stool to reach Olga's leather-covered diary in the big pair's sitting room, when she heard footsteps behind her and, startled, fell over, landing on the carpet with a soft _thud_.

Rubbing her thigh and groaning softly, she gazed up to see her eldest sister standing above her, tapping her foot, arms folded across her chest.

She did _not_ look amused.

" _Olga_!" cried Anastasia, giggling nervously. "What a pleasant surprise."

" _Papa_!" shrieked Olga, running from the room.

Moments later, Anastasia and Dimitri were both in hard-back chairs facing the wall in the corridor outside of the tsar's office.

"I can't _believe_ you told on me!" Dimitri growled, for the time being forgetting this was a princess he was addressing.

"I want quiet out there!" Nicholas roared. "Not _one_ word for the next half hour, _both_ of you!"

Anastasia stuck out her tongue and waggled her hands at Dimitri, who could only glower in return for the following thirty minutes.

* * *

Anastasia and Alexei were putting folded shirts and small tin toys into a suitcase when Dimitri entered the Tsarevich's room, a couple of months after what had come to be known in the imperial household as _The Snowball Incident_.

"You better start packing, too, Dima," Alexei said, not looking up.

"Where are we going?" he asked, noticing the brown leather rucksack Alexei had left out – presumably for him, his companion – by the bedside where he was usually ordered to sit and read aloud when the Tsarevich was too sick to get up.

Alexei and his sister exchanged excited glances, practically bubbling over with joy.

" _Livadia_!" they chorused.

* * *

Livadia was, apparently, another word for _heaven_.

Dimitri instantly understood why the Romanovs were so besotted with the their beloved seaside palace. What he didn't understand was why they couldn't just live there all year round. Alexei told him he'd asked his papa once, and Nicholas had just smiled wistfully, as if he himself would have liked nothing better, and said, a little sadly, "It is simply not the way things are done, Sunbeam."

Even the trip to Livadia was something out of a fairy story. That sleigh ride to the station to retrieve Princess Anastasia and Princess Maria had been _nothing_ to this.

The imperial train was like a moving luxury hotel, every bit as nice as the palace. The dining car, which Dimitri was surprised but oddly happy to see that nice court member Vladimir practically _living_ in, had electric chandeliers of silver filigree and crystal and a separate table for the children (Alexei, the grand duchesses, and himself). In Alexei's sleeping car, there was even a projector to watch films! Dimitri had never seen a moving picture before in his life, and now he was being ordered to watch one after another with the Tsarevich. Anastasia joined them occasionally, but she only liked the funny films with slapstick humor and always left right after they were over to find some other amusement.

For the most part, the princesses played a lot of cards (though never for money, since the Tsarina forbade them to gamble) and talked about what they would do when they finally arrived in Livadia.

Since Alexei wasn't currently hurt, and there weren't many places he _could_ hurt himself on the plush train (short of literally jumping out of it while it was moving), he – and Dimitri, by default – were mostly left to their own devices.

Then it had only gotten better when the journey came to its end.

Dimitri learned that Cook had not come with the other lower servants. That he would not be in Livadia with them for an entire week! During which time, another chef, who lived fairly locally, had been temporarily employed.

Botkin had come, of course, but Livadia seemed to relax him, causing him to be less strict about Dimitri's training. If he fell asleep on the palace veranda for a couple of hours with no one nearby to wake him, and a lesson or two was missed as a result, he seemed to think it no big deal if Alexei's companion went for a swim (though the sea water was awfully cold) or spent some time running around outside as young boys like to do.

The tsar, spotting him jogging through the trees once, pleased that he was an active child and not a lazy lie-about, offered him the use of a bicycle and a pair of roller-skates that were too small for Tatiana's long feet now but would likely fit his.

The grand duchesses were not so lucky, their tutors never falling asleep, yet they seemed so happy to be where they were that for once even Anastasia grumbled very little.

Of course, this heaven could not last.

Dimitri was quickly given a reminder of his place – a reminder that none of this was truly his – with the return of Cook.

Although he was supposed to help in the kitchens when Botkin had no use for him, the kitchen staff here at Livadia didn't seem to want him around. Unlike at the Catherine Palace in Saint Petersburg – where he had long been known as an easily disposable serving boy _before_ becoming companion to the Tsarevich – he was regarded as just another upper manservant to the royals. The staff chased him away from their soapy sinks and hot ovens with the same vim they shooed off the Tsarina's favorite handmaidens.

So, kicked out of the kitchen with strict orders from a woman brandishing a wooden spoon not to come back until suppertime, Dimitri set off in search of other endeavors.

Alexei was asleep in a wheelchair next to Botkin's chaise lounge. Tatiana was sewing with her mother. Tsar Nicholas was swimming in the frigid sea water. Anastasia and Maria were having French lessons with Gilliard.

The only person who was reasonably unoccupied was Olga, setting up a wooden chess set on the veranda.

In all honesty, Dimitri was a little scared of her, since she hadn't said a word to or about him since he'd told Anastasia where she hid her diary, but he finally decided to approach, even if just to watch her play against herself for a bit.

After the pieces were in place, all the chessmen perfectly lined up, Olga spotted Dimitri standing there with his hands behind his back.

She put her hand to her heart, momentarily startled. "Oh, it's you."

"I didn't mean to scare you," he mumbled, not quite meeting her eyes.

She shook her head. "It's all right. It is hardly your fault that I am easily startled."

He shifted from foot to foot, uneasily.

"Do you play?" Olga asked.

He nodded. "A little."

"Please..." She gestured at the chessboard. "Sit."

He bobbed an awkward bow and sat.

"I'm glad you came," she said, throwing her voice grandly. "I hate playing the game by myself." Her index finger rested on the cross on the white king's head. "It always ends in a tie."

Dimitri cracked a smile at that. "You're teasing me."

"Maybe a little," Olga admitted.

"I'm sorry I told Ana..." He stopped, realizing the mistake he'd almost made. "I mean, your sister, her royal highness Anastasia Nikolaevna, where your diary was."

Olga smiled forgivingly. "It is forgotten."

He exhaled a sharp breath of relief.

"Here, I'll go first." She moved a white pawn. "And, by the way, Dimitri, in the future, if you could please just call us by our names? It takes you too long to say anything when you use our titles. Especially the way you splutter sometimes."

"I do not splutter!" he exclaimed.

"You _do_!" she laughed. "Ask Anastasie. She does the _perfect_ impression of you trying to tell me or Tatiana anything even remotely important. It takes you five whole minutes just to get to the point. She's counted."

" _Well_!" huffed Dimitri, trying not to burst out laughing along with her.

"It is your move," Olga told him.

But just as his fingers wrapped around a pawn, a booming voice demanded to know exactly what he thought he was doing.

 _Playing chess_ was the obvious answer, but that would have only made the scowling cook even madder.

If he had stumbled upon Dimitri playing chess with _Alexei_ , it would have been different, but he hadn't been hired on as a companion to the princesses. So it gave Cook, the way he saw it, ample cause to grab his former charge by the ear and drag him out of the chair, off the veranda, and into the kitchen where he belonged.

* * *

It was evidently an abrupt end to Dimitri's good times in Livadia. After Cook dragged him off, he spent practically every moment he was not by Alexei's side scrubbing pots and pans and carrying dishes. He was also forced to return Tatiana's skates under Cook's orders, though she reminded him it wasn't necessary since her feet no longer fit into them.

It seemed as if the beautiful dream was completely over. Cook was even stricter here than in Saint Petersburg, like he was determined to make up for Botkin's current laxness in tenfold. A single spot missed meant a cuff upside the head, and if he tried anything Cook deemed above his station, he took off his belt and gave him a good whipping.

Only once he went too far and Alexei saw a swelling red welt on his companion's arm and began to cry, thus upsetting the Tsarina.

Nicholas, once he got his wife and son to calm down, commanded that the cook learn to restrain himself or else find employment elsewhere.

Then came the day Anastasia barged into the kitchen and snatched an entire platter of Russian tea cakes out from under Cook's nose.

"Get back here!" Royal or not, she was not permitted to take those. They were for after supper, as a surprise treat for the grand duchesses, who were not usually allowed very many sweets, except on Butter Week and sometimes Easter. Not to mention there were enough on that platter she'd taken to last a _week_!

Anastasia _had_ been wearing a feathered mask, as a sort of disguise, but it was obviously _her_. She was too short to pass for Olga or Tatiana, and Maria was much too timid to brave Cook the way her younger sister did.

"No chance!" she shouted, kicking down a tray of silverware onto the floor and making her getaway.

Dimitri didn't even care that _he'd_ been the one to wash all of that silverware. This was too entertaining. Never, so long as he lived, would he forget how red Cook's face was at this very moment; how flabbergasted and beside himself the horrible man was.

Cook jumped over the tray and took off after the tsar's youngest daughter with a vengeance.

Naturally, Dimitri couldn't resist following to see how it all turned out.

Cook eventually got Anastasia back in eye-range again, but he was out of breath and she was just getting her second wind.

Realizing how unlikely he was to catch her, Anastasia actually stopped and went, " _Nah, nah, nah, nah_..." a couple of times.

Suddenly, outside, cornered by a babbling brook, Cook thought he stood a chance after all. Anastasia would have to come to a halt here (it was either that or jump into the water) and then he'd take those cakes back and threaten to tell her father about this if she ever tried anything of the sort again.

But the grand duchess seemed to disappear like a mischievous imp from a fairytale. Cook couldn't spy her _anywhere_!

Furious, all he could think was that if she was _his_ daughter he'd whip her senseless for her behavior and that Tsar Nicholas ought to have taught the brat more manners rather than indulging her.

Really, Anastasia had not disappeared. She was hiding in the bushes. She'd bumped into Dimitri, who had hidden there to watch the rest of the spectacle and now found himself part of it. She handed him the tray of cakes, which he took gratefully, stuffing one into his mouth (Cook hadn't let him take lunch that day). Then she pressed her finger to her lip, raised her eyebrows suggestively, and cocked her head in Cook's direction.

"Boo!" She jumped out of the bushes, startling Cook.

He teetered backwards and almost regained his balance when she reached over and gave him a little shove, giggling.

The cook fell into the brook, thrashing in rage, immediately soaked to the bone.

Unable to hold it in, Dimitri laughed and laughed. He laughed so hard he fell to the ground and rolled out of the bushes, gasping for breath and pounding his hands into the grass and moist spoil.

Anastasia Romanov was officially his new hero.

Unfortunately, not everyone was so impressed with Anastasia's terrorizing of the cook.

Vladimir and Tsar Nicholas had been taking a walk together. Vladimir was eating a vatrushka and Nicholas had been smoking a cigarette. They'd arrived at the brook just in time to see Anastasia shove the cook into it.

Vlad almost dropped what was left of his vatruhka, and the cigarette tumbled from the tsar's open mouth.

"Hello, Papa." Anastasia waved.

Regaining his wits, Nicholas shot her a stern look.

She grimaced, taking a nervous step back. Dimitri stopped rolling and quickly made a run for it, before Cook noticed him.

The last thing he heard was Anastasia's rushed, pathetic explanation and Cook's swearing like a sailor, followed by Vladimir asking, "What became of those cakes you stole, child?"

* * *

In honor of their last day in Livadia, Anastasia and Maria arranged a surprise for the family.

They'd written a short play together while in Paris with the dowager and intended to preform it.

It was loosely based on the ball they'd had the night Rasputin was killed.

Anastasia had desperately wanted a proper reenactment, so she could play the part of Rasputin and pretend to get shot a whole bunch of times and not fall over. And, she figured, Maria could play Olga and faint dramatically. But Maria had told her she 'didn't suppose Mama would approve of such a performance' and 'had no wish to scandalize everybody' as their going away from Livadia present.

So in the end (since her co-writer was not being very helpful) she decided to make it nice. It was the ball as it _should_ have gone off, more or less, had it not been interrupted by Rasputin.

Not very exciting, really, except for the big musical number, which was the only thing Anastasia got her way with.

The part of the dowager, because she was still back in Paris and couldn't appear herself, was played by Pooka. Maria put a crown on the dog and sat him on a fancy chair that vaguely resembled a throne, but the pooch had other ideas and shook the crown off, barking.

Luckily, the dowager had no lines in this production.

The audience was made up of Olga, Tatiana, the Tsar and Tsarina, Vladimir, and any servants that could be rounded up and forced to attend. This included Dimitri and Botkin, and unfortunately Cook as well, though he inwardly chafed at having to attend a play put on by the nasty little girl who'd thrown him in a brook only a few weeks before.

Alexei would have been in the audience too, but he had an actual part in the play. Even at such a young age, he was becoming quite the skilled balalaika player, so Anastasia had arranged for him to have a little solo in their musical number.

He had to be seated on a chair, however, and have someone hand him his instrument, because he'd hurt his ankle a couple days ago and the swelling was so bad he couldn't stand up for very long.

He even had to be carried into the room and helped behind the curtain to begin with.

The man who was tasked with this job was a servant named Derevenko. He was only seven or eight years older than Dimitri, and had often been charged with carrying Prince Alexei when a wheelchair was impractical for one reason or another.

There was something about Derevenko that Dimitri disliked. Whenever Alexei ordered him to do something, he always got this _look_ on his face. A look that said, very plainly, "If you weren't Tsarevich, I'd drop you on your backside just for a laugh."

It was, basically, a look of restrained disgust.

Alexei, trusting soul that he was, never noticed the look, but that was likely only because no one else had ever had the gall to give it to him. Dimitri, on the other hand, knew it well. Why? Because he'd given that same look to Cook often enough.

What he couldn't for the life of him understand was why Derevenko hated the poor kid so much. Alexei was, underneath it all, just a sick child. Sure, he could be bratty, demanding, impossible, you name it. But couldn't _all_ little boys? And couldn't Derevenko see that his charge had a heart of gold in spite of his many childish failings?

Dimitri was distracted from his thoughts about Derevenko as the curtain rose and the little pair's play began.

It went off well, even though Anastasia couldn't act (she was too melodramatic) and Maria couldn't sing very well (Anastasia and Tatiana had beautiful voices, Maria and Olga did not), and the doggie-grandmother went missing less than a minute into the first act.

Alexei's balalaika solo had three mistakes in it, but otherwise was very good (especially accompanied by Anastasia's disturbingly accurate impression of a French opera singer).

Only Derevenko seemed to even _notice_ the mistakes and scoffed, pretending to have a coughing fit to hide it.

As the audience was getting up to leave, Tsar Nicholas cheering, "Bravo, bravo!" while the little pair linked hands and bowed, Dimitri heard one of Cook's assistants say softly, "What a family! But so lavish! A play in the middle of the daytime – with _refreshments_! Can you imagine?"

"I often find myself doubting the Romanovs will make it another three hundred years," Derevenko said darkly. "How long do you think they'll last, Sasha?"

Dimitri knew they weren't talking to him, that he had no place in this conversation, but he cut in anyway. Staring Derevenko straight in the eye, he made a comment so full of passionate conviction he surprised even himself.

"I hope it's forever."


	3. Measles & Abdication

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A quick note on the ages of the Romanov children in this. Since for the bulk of the movie this fic is based off of Anastasia is 18 years old, only a year older than when her historical real-life counterpart died, I have bumped up all the children's ages during their time in the House of Special purpose by one year.
> 
> So Anastasia is 18, Alexei is 15, Olga is 24, and so on and so forth...

_Measles & Abdication_

_10 Years Later..._

"Papa's coming home!" Seventeen year old Anastasia Romanov raced through several corridors of the Catherine Palace, eager to alert anyone who might not yet know the wonderful news.

A woman cleaning a large oriental vase looked up as Anastasia tore across the top of the grand staircase. Shaking her head, she gave the vase an extra rub with her cloth and set it down gently.

"Papa's–" Anastasia almost banged into Lili, one of her mother's favorite ladies-in-waiting. She halted to a stop so quickly she lost her balance (despite swinging her arms frantically to regain it) and fell backwards, flat on her bottom.

"Good heavens!" gasped Lili, bending over and offering her hand to the princess. "Are you all right?"

Back on her feet, Anastasia hastily smoothed her pale purple dress and shook a lock of red hair out of her eyes. "I... I'm fine. Thank you, Lili. You can let go of my hand now."

She let go and curtsied. "Yes, of course, your highness."

"Have you heard the news?" Anastasia asked. "Papa's coming home."

"Very exciting," Lili said, smiling at her.

"He could even be back here in time for my birthday." That was, perhaps, the best part of all; the thought alone made the youngest grand duchess flush with delight.

"Wouldn't that be just lovely, having the tsar returning just time in time to see his little girl becoming a real lady," Lili agreed warmly, reaching out and patting the girl's cheek fondly.

The faintest squeak of a wheelchair was heard, followed by, "Oy, Ana! What's all this about Papa coming back? Nobody's told _me_ anything."

Alexei had grown over the last ten years from a charming little china-doll boy into a handsome lad of fifteen with a charismatic smile and gold-hued auburn hair. It was a shame, really, that he was so rarely fit to be seen in public – always recovering from this or that injury – for court ladies truly enjoyed seeing his face. His nickname, Sunbeam, had only grown more appropriate with the passing of time. One appearance from him _did_ seem to allow a trickle more light and happiness to spread into any given gathering.

The person pushing Alexei's wheelchair had also grown a great deal. Over the course of one short decade, Dimitri had gone from a scrappy kitchen boy to a well-built young man strong enough to carry the Tsarevich upstairs or over raised thresholds whenever that rat Derevenko oh so conveniently made himself scarce.

"We girls were in the room when Mama read the letter," Anastasia explained gently. "Tatiana was meant to tell you."

"Tatiana is at her lessons with Gilliard." Alexei rolled his eyes. "How _can_ she think of lessons with such exciting news?"

"That's Governess for you," laughed Anastasia.

"And you're not the least bit worried about _why_ he's coming back?" Dimitri cut in.

"I do not believe the prince and princess were addressing _you_ ," snapped Lili, whipping her head around and glaring at him stonily. "And, in future, you would do better to add _if your highness will pardon_ , to a callous sentence such as that!"

Anastasia stuck out her hand in Lili's direction and shook her head. "No, that's not necessary."

"Ana is right, Lili." Alexei craned his neck to look at Dimitri, giving him a kind smile. "He is my friend. He can speak as he likes."

"So, _Dimitri_ ," Anastasia pressed, "what was that you were saying?"

"I was _saying_ ," he continued, "that it's a little strange the tsar would come back now, what with all the trouble in Saint Petersburg lately."

"What trouble?" asked Alexei.

"Some people smashed the windows of a bakery and started a riot over bread," Anastasia explained with a half-shrug. "It's nothing Papa can't put right."

"How can it be nothing if he's coming home?" Dimitri put in.

Lili glared at him.

Anastasia was slightly more forgiving, but her expression was hardening as well.

So much for being allowed to speak my mind, Dimitri thought.

"Maybe he's right, Ana," Alexei said softly, shifting a little in his wheelchair. "Maybe Papa's in real trouble. That would mean we're _all_ in real trouble. Danger, even."

"No, of course not!" Anastasia sounded like she was trying to convince herself as much as her brother. "It's a _good_ thing Papa's coming home."

"I wonder what's going to happen to us," were his next, ominous words.

Anastasia frowned and raised an eyebrow at Dimitri, gesturing down at Alexei ever so slightly with her chin.

"I was just saying..." Dimitri tried, not quite apologetically enough.

"Don't talk anymore, okay?" Anastasia sighed, rubbing her temples. "It's only going to upset me."

"Fine." Dimitri tightened his grip on Alexei's wheelchair ever so slightly. "I'll be quiet."

She nodded somberly. "Good." She glanced over her shoulder. "Now, I have more people to share the news with, so which way was I going?"

Lili pointed behind herself with her thumb. "That way, I believe, your highness."

"Thank you." With that, Anastasia gave one last (now somewhat forced) happy smile to Alexei and brushed curtly past Dimitri.

It couldn't be a bad thing that Papa was coming back. It just _couldn't_ be!

What did a kitchen boy understand about politics anyway? Probably even less than she – youngest daughter who had no need to learn of such things – did.

Dimitri probably didn't know what in the blazes he was talking about.

And, even if he did, for in spite of everything she knew a _little_ of the rumors, he had _no business_ scaring Alexei with it. Whether or not the Tsarevich gave him permission to. Just because you were _allowed_ to say something, didn't mean you _should_.

Then, Dimitri had never been the poster child for diplomacy.

If the subject matter were not so serious, Anastasia might have laughed at her own thoughts. After all, _she_ was hardly one to talk about bridling the tongue or saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.

Maybe the real reason Dimitri words cut so deep, got so horridly under her skin, was simply because she just didn't _want_ to believe them. She wanted her papa to be able to fix everything.

The way she'd always used to _think_ he could.

* * *

Nicholas was _not_ back for his daughter's birthday, much to Anastasia's disappointment.

In fact, there had been no news of him at all following the initial message that he was returning, and there had been reports of more riots in Saint Petersburg. The worry on everyone's mind – the one they didn't dare speak of – was that the poor tsar was trapped somewhere, these mad hoards blocking his path.

Still, Anastasia tried to be cheerful and keep everybody's spirits up. After all, even without Papa there to share it with them, it was a special occasion. And it seemed her siblings, Mama, and the servants had all gone to great lengths to make it nice for her. The least she could do was laugh and joke and tease them like nothing was wrong. They were counting on her, it seemed, to help them not to be so gloomy.

Olga and Tatiana had both made her ribbon bookmarks with little black cameos of the four of them, the Tsarina gave her a crystal egg to keep rings and bracelets in, and Gilliard presented her with a leather-bound French novel.

Alexei's gift was an almost five-foot-long scarf he'd knitted himself. It was pitifully ugly. Even Anastasia herself had to fight back a wince as she accepted it. She managed to hide her expression with a kiss she planted on his frail white cheek.

"Thank you," she whispered. "I'll wear it next time we go out to play in the snow." Hopefully no one would see it tucked under her woolen coat and sable collar.

Maria's gift was last. Her hands were shaking as she handed a sleek velvet box to her sister.

Anastasia hadn't expected anything so fancy. Princesses though they were, all four of them had a limited allowance that Nicholas and Alexandra were very firm about. Which meant their birthday gifts to each other were more heartfelt than they were extravagant.

"What's this?" Anastasia asked.

"Open it and find out," Alexandra encouraged her.

Maria had a goofy grin forming on her face as Anastasia lifted the lid and the tiny silver hinges squeaked ever so slightly.

Within folds of lavender satin was the most elegant string of milky-white pearls imaginable.

Anastasia couldn't speak, her voice caught in her throat. All she could do was gaze down at the angelic beauty of the object in her hands. It was like holding a box that contained a series of miniature moons. They seemed almost to _glow_ in their perfection.

"I've been saving up," Maria told her, blushing. "I've been buying one pearl at a time for years now. Mama's helped some. She paid for the box, since I spent the rest of my allowance on the pearls and sweets."

"Oh, Mashka!" Tears began to flood Anastasia's eyes as she flung herself into her sister's arms. "Oh!"

"You like it?"

"No, I _love_ it!" She knew then that it would become her second-favorite piece of jewelry, right after the necklace Grandmama had given her to wind up her music box with.

Maria eyes were streaming as Anastasia pulled away. But not with emotion. Her nose was runny, too. She coughed into the crock of her arm, shaking again.

"Are you all right?" Olga reached over and put her hand on Maria's shoulder.

"Fine," she said, her voice weak from coughing. "I think I might have a slight cold. I've had chills today."

Tatiana felt her forehead. "You're warm."

"I'm fine," Maria repeated, forcing a smile. "Really."

Alexandra looked concerned but said nothing.

"Aren't you going to try Mashka's pearls on?" Alexei asked, looking over at Anastasia.

She nodded and, lifting them out of the box, fastened the moony string around her neck.

Behind Alexei's wheelchair, Dimitri caught his breath, immediately feeling like an idiotka.

Anastasia wasn't even that pretty, really. Even growing much taller and thinner over the years, she still looked like a stumpy little girl compared to her sisters. With the exception of Maria, who was only a few inches taller and shared more facial features with her younger sister than she did with the big pair.

Yet, even so, sometimes Dimitri felt oddly attracted to the imperial family's household imp. Sometimes it was hard to remember that this little troublemaker he'd more or less grown up with was a grand duchess, so high above him in rank it was almost immeasurable. He had to remind himself, more often than he liked, that she was a princess and – companion to Alexei or not – he was only a kitchen boy.

He'd gotten her a present for her birthday, too, though. This was not considered improper. Many of the other servants gave presents to the girls from time to time, which the Tsar and Tsarina had taught them to accept with absolute graciousness.

It felt sort of strange to pull out a folded bolt of blue cloth and rough white lace from a sack while the grand duchess was stroking an expensive pearl necklace around her throat, but Dimitri cleared his throat and did so with as much dignity as he could muster up, choking back laughter at the irony, trying to look proud.

"I bought you a dress." He unfolded and shook out the blue dress, holding it up.

Anastasia burst into laughter. "You bought me a..." She took a step towards him. "...Tent."

Pooka, who'd been sniffing around at the girls' skirts, hoping for crumbs, looked up and barked.

 _Great_ , Dimitri thought, even the mutt's laughing at me.

Anastasia lifted the bottom of the dress and stuck her head under it. The coarse lace tickled the hairs on the back of her neck.

Dimitri glanced down at her through the hole the head went through. "What are you looking for?"

"The Russian circus," she said, rolling her eyes all around, searching. "I think it's still in here."

Tatiana laughed so hard her sides ached.

Maria whispered, "She says the Russian circus is in the dress!" to a giggling Olga.

Even Alexandra smiled, hiding it behind a gold-rimmed glass of water Lili brought to her. "Mashka, darling," she said, setting down the glass, composure regained, "why are you scratching yourself?"

* * *

There was still no word from Nicholas, which in itself was worrisome enough, and now Maria had fallen ill.

Her streaming eyes and shakes and scratching had all turned out to be symptoms of the measles. Suspected by Alexandra when, the morning after Anastasia's birthday, Maria had not been able to get out of bed, and then confirmed by Botkin, who shook his head and sighed.

It was a bad case, no doubt about it.

Olga and Tatiana had already had the measles when they were very small, but Anastasia hadn't, so naturally the first thing that was done was to separate the little pair, much to their distress.

And it was far worse for Anastasia than for Maria, who had the luxury of delirium to distract her from the absence of her favorite sister and best friend. Anastasia was simply left alone, moved to a strange wing of the palace she'd never bothered to go into before.

Worse still was that no one paid much attention to her after she was moved. They kept a sharp eye on her for a little while, since Botkin said that it might already be too late to prevent her from catching Maria's measles, as she had hugged her while already infected, but as soon as they were fairly certain she was healthy enough, the concern all turned to Maria and Alexei.

Alexei did not have the measles, but he did have a bad cough that everybody feared would get worse. Tatiana and Alexandra rarely left his side, while Olga and Botkin kept their never-ending vigil over Maria.

The tide shifted suddenly as one morning Alexei's cough was much better and Maria developed pneumonia as a complication. Tatiana and the Tsarina joined Olga and Botkin at the side of the second-youngest grand duchess. Prayers were said, tears fell in buckets, and Anastasia, who wanted to be with Maria most of all, especially as it seemed she might...might... _die_... Well, it was not permitted. They would not have _her_ falling sick, too.

Though, in all honesty, if anything happened to Maria, Anastasia wasn't sure she didn't want to die right along with her. What was a life without her beloved Mashka? Without the sister she'd shared a room with her whole life.

She tried to be brave, to be as good and piteous as her mother. Maybe, if she could manage it, God would hear their prayers and save Maria. But she could never quite mean her prayers as whole-heartedly as she wanted to. Deep down, she was too angry at God for letting her sister get sick in the first place. And, of course, she knew it wouldn't be right to say _If you take Maria, I'll never forgive you_ , in a prayer. Her mama would have been appalled. Perhaps rightly so.

At any rate, it seemed better to apply the old adage that if you had nothing nice to say, don't say anything at all.

So, until Maria showed signs of getting better, Anastasia kept her prayers short and curt, willing herself not to yell at any high-power cruel enough to make someone as sweet as Mashka suffer and someone as good as Papa impossible to reach.

She had just finished muttering one such forced prayer and was lifting her knees off the strange carpet and crawling into the big, empty canopy bed – homesick for her cot and Maria's snoring in the one right beside it – when Pooka came over wagging his tail.

"Here boy." Anastasia leaned over and clapped her hands.

Pooka jumped and was lifted up onto the bed beside the grand duchess.

"What's that?" It was only then that she noticed Pooka had a pearl necklace in his mouth – the one Maria had given her for her birthday.

She had no idea how the dog had gotten ahold of those pearls, but her eyes misted over at the memory they brought back. It was only of a few days ago, but, _oh_ , it _felt_ so much longer!

Pooka dropped the necklace at her feet, lowered his little gray body, barked twice, and wagged his tail again.

Bending over, Anastasia picked up the pearls and set them down on the pillow beside her.

It was only then – looking at the little necklace on the little pillow – that the tears began to stream, rolling down her face freely as she sobbed. It mattered not one bit to her that she was eighteen now and far too old to cry like this.

For, once she started, she couldn't stop. Even if she _had_ wanted to, it would have been impossible.

She pulled her knees to her chest and carried on, heaving snotty, rapid breaths, salty rain falling like a storm on her cheeks until she fell asleep and woke at morning's first light dry-eyed, feeling numb.

* * *

Still numb, Anastasia sat by a bay window, overlooking a frozen imperial garden. One of the smaller ones.

Maria would have said the trees and railings and empty flowerbeds blanketed in packed snow looked like cakes and candies covered with hardened sugar icing.

Anastasia's mind regarded this fact almost coldly, her blank face not showing even the smallest signs of sadness or amusement. She played pointlessly with Grandmama's _Together in Paris_ necklace, lifting the gold chain slightly and letting the pendant swing back and forth.

_Back and forth... Back and forth... Back and forth... Back and forth..._

"Stop fiddling with that thing," said a voice from behind her.

She jumped, startled. Then, recognizing the person, wrinkled her nose and looked petulant. "Oh, it's you."

Dimitri rolled his eyes. He'd come over here because he was worried about her, because she looked so empty... And yet, somehow, he'd managed to get annoyed with her, with the way she'd been playing with that necklace and slumping in the window seat.

Naturally, none of his pity came through in his voice. Just the annoyance.

"Sorry," he said at last. "I was just trying to help."

A fire had been lit under her, melting away some of the numbness. Apparently annoyance was as easy to pass on as the measles.

"Dimitri?" she simpered.

"Yes?"

"Do you have amnesia?"

He looked confused. "Um, no."

"Not even a little bit?"

"No."

"You're sure? _Absolutely_ sure?"

"Yeah..." His brows furrowed, coming close together.

"So you remember who I am?" She raised her own eyebrows.

" _Yes_..." Where was she going with this?

"You remember that I'm the daughter of the Tsar of Russia?"

How could he ever forget _that_? "Of course!"

"Then stop bossing me around!" She folded her arms across her chest and turned away from him in a huff, looking back out the window at the swirling snowflakes.

That was when Dimitri noticed the dress she was wearing. It seemed to be in a very familiar shade of blue... "Hey, isn't that...?" He gestured down at the dress with his chin.

She glanced back at him out of the corner of her eye. "Yes, thank you."

His forehead crinkled "What _happened_ to it?"

The dress he'd given her had had ruffles at the bottom and longer sleeves. It had also had a ruffled collar. This dress, though resembling that dress in almost all other ways, had none of these distinctive features.

Anastasia shrugged. "I fixed it up a bit." She looked down at her waist where a belt was fastened. "It was too big."

"I guess I should just be glad you didn't turn it into a _hat_ ," Dimitri murmured.

She stuck out her tongue at him.

He laughed. "Okay, sorry. It's...it's really beautiful, actually."

"You think so?" Her voice was softer now, less defensive.

"Yes," he admitted. "I mean, it was nice on the hanger, but it looks even better on you." Oh, dear _God_ , what nonsense was he spewing and why couldn't he make himself _stop_? "You...you should wear it." Wait, _what_?

She arched a brow at him. "I _am_ wearing it."

Dimitri scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. "Yeah...uh...right..."

"Your highness!" Gilliard came running up to them, followed by the Tsarina, both looking pale as ghosts and horror-stricken.

"Oh, thank _God_ ," Dimitri muttered under his breath, grateful for any interruption, no matter how dismal-looking the interrupters.

"Anastasia!" cried the Tsarina. "Come here, darling." She held out her hands.

Anastasia got up. "Mama?"

Alexandra fast-walked over and grasped her daughter's hands in her own. "We've just gotten word..."

"From...from..." Anastasia stammered. "From _Papa_?"

"Yes." The Tsarina blinked back tears.

"Is he okay?"

Alexandra nodded. "He is safe. But something else has happened. Something terrible."

"What is it?" Anastasia felt herself trembling already.

"Your father has given up the Russian throne. Or rather, he has been _forced_ to."

"I don't understand, Mama, what does it mean?"

Alexandra reached up and stroked her daughter's hair, tucking a lock behind one ear. "It means, dear one, that we... That we are not the imperial family any longer. And...and the new government is...is..."

" _Yes_ , Mama?" Anastasia prompted.

"Is putting us and any servants who choose to remain here at the palace under house arrest."

Gilliard blew his nose and crossed himself.

Dimitri blurted, " _What_?"

But Alexandra was through answering questions; she was now holding her daughter close, embracing her second-youngest child tightly, as if she was afraid the new government would come in and yank them apart any second.

* * *

Maria couldn't understand what was happening. Even in her fevers and delirium, though, she sensed change. She heard more guards outside her room. Tatiana's pretty face was blotchy, like she'd been crying. For once she looked less than perfect, which Anastasia would have said was a world-changing event in itself. Not to mention, Mama hadn't come back since she'd gotten that letter about (or was it _from_?) Papa.

Everything was so muddled. If only somebody could come in and explain what was _happening_...

Oh, why were the patterns on the crown-molding moving again? It made her so nervous when they did that. She was afraid the whole thing would break off and fall on her head and crush her.

What a horrible, horrible way to go.

Short of a firing squad, which would be terrifying, _was_ there a worse way to die than being crushed or smothered? Trapped under heavy plaster with no hope of escape?

Maria certainly didn't believe so.

* * *

It had really been several _hours_ , but it felt like five dizzy minutes to their poor confused Mashka, when Tatiana and Olga came in and attempted to answer Maria's unspoken questions.

But it was all for nothing. She couldn't understand a word. She was stuffed up and her ears were completely plugged. Botkin had warned the girls Maria might have an abscess or two assisting the blocking, making it hard for sound to get through.

Yet, since she'd moaned that she could hear the new guards (which were indeed there and not a figment of feverish imagination like the possessed crown-molding) they'd thought maybe she _could_ hear well enough for them to explain.

Apparently not, it would seem.

"What do we do now?" Olga asked Tatiana.

Tatiana shook her head. "I don't know."

Dimitri walked in, carrying some flowers Alexei had wanted send to cheer Maria up. They'd had to be searched by those stupid guards outside the room, and Dimitri had relished the sneezing fit the scent caused one of them, smirking as they finally allowed him to pass.

"Such nice flowers," Tatiana said, trying to be kind but sounding more patronizing.

"Thank you," he replied. "Alexei would have sent Derevenko, but he hasn't had the measles yet, so he's still in quarantine." Dimitri didn't mention that he strongly suspected Derevenko was _lying_ , just so Alexei couldn't send him in and out of Maria's room with various get well gifts.

"It's no use," sighed Olga, reaching down and stroking Maria's hair. "We just can't make her understand what's happened."

"I could try," Dimitri offered.

"You?" said Tatiana, sounding surprised.

He nodded. "Here." He walked over to Maria's bedside and put his hand in his pocket, strolling the way the Tsar did when he was out for a casual walk in the garden.

Dimitri wasn't Anastasia's equal at mimicry, but it was close enough that both Olga and Tatiana smiled, and Maria – recognizing the subject of the pantomime – croaked, " _Papa_?"

Next, Dimitri pointed to the top of his head and mouthed, " _Crown_."

Maria blinked. _Crown...Papa...crown..._ Papa's crown? What happened to Papa's crown? Was it stolen? Was that why there were extra guards? Why was that making Tatiana cry? It wasn't like Papa ever wore the crown except on special occasions. Surely it would be found and returned before it was time for another formal portrait.

"I think she's getting it," Olga whispered to Tatiana.

Next, Dimitri made a slashing motion across his throat, trying to show that Nicholas wasn't Tsar anymore.

But all Maria got from it was...

" _Dead_?" she shout-croaked. "Papa's _dead_?" Papa was dead and his crown had been stolen! Somebody killed Papa to take his crown! Maybe it was one of those angry bread-stealing peasants she'd been hearing so much about before she got sick. And to think she'd felt so _sorry_ for them!

"You were _saying_?" Tatiana whispered back to Olga.

Dimitri shook his head, trying to fix this. "No, he–"

It was too late; Maria was already bawling, tears streaming down her face, coughing and sobbing and wheezing all at once.

Tatiana shot Dimitri a frustrated look. "Thank you for that," she growled sarcastically.

Olga put her arm around Maria's shoulder, sitting on the edge of the bed, trying – and failing – to explain that Papa wasn't dead, he just wasn't in charge of Russia anymore.

Leaving the room in shame, Dimitri couldn't shake the odd, unexplainable feeling that a large part of him wanted to sit next to Maria and cry endlessly right along with her.


	4. Hair Loss & Loyalty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A brief note to those unfamiliar with Russian names. Many Russians have a patronymic, a name following the first name; this is sort of like a middle name, except that it literally means "Son or daughter of (whomever)" and all children in a family would share this. It is also gender-specific. For example, Anastasia's is Nicholaevna (daughter of Nicholas) and her brother Alexei's would have been Nicholaevich (son of Nicholas).
> 
> Since Dimitri does not have a patronymic in the Don Bluth film canon, I've had to invent one for him in this AU.
> 
> Also bear in mind that there were TWO Derevenkos in the Romanovs' lives. The more famous one was a doctor; the other, on whom I based the cruelty of the character in this story, was a servant of Alexei's who allegedly turned on him after his father was no longer the tsar. 
> 
> I took many liberties, of course, but I wish to make it clear to all my readers that I am not trying to misrepresent the good doctor. I've simply left THAT Derevenko out of this fic to avoid name confusion.
> 
> And as a further point, some have argued that the Derevenko I've made a villain of in this chapter may in fact have been grossly misrepresented by history, some records suggesting that Derevenko did not leave the family willingly and before he was kicked out even requested for Alexei to have new boots and clothing. Baroness Sophie Buxhoeveden, one of the Tsarina's ladies-in-waiting, may have had a grudge against him and exaggerated a time during the imprisonment in Alexander Palace where Derevenko asked Alexei to clean up after himself, thus beginning the rumours that he was cruel and bossed Alexei around. 
> 
> At the end of the day, this fanfiction is a fictionalized account of Historical Fantasy and should be taken with a grain of salt.

_Hair Loss & Loyalty_

After Maria slowly recovered from the measles and pneumonia, life began to grow as stale as the now uncirculated air in the palace.

Nicholas had returned home, greeted with a great many hugs and kisses from his daughters and wife, and a misty-eyed salute from his son (who then also allowed himself to be pulled into a hug). But, aside from a few loyal servants who would even go so far as to consider themselves the former tsar's friends, no one else seemed pleased – or even to _care_ , one way or the other – that he'd come back.

A great many cold-eyed servants were busily packing their things, allowing themselves to be escorted out by guards, knowing full well they would not be permitted back within these walls. Not ever.

This, though, was a sacrifice they were willing to make. They were in no way prepared to become prisoners alongside the old imperial family.

"Are you not going as well?" Olga asked Dimitri, having noticed he hadn't shown any signs of altering his routine of chores and keeping Alexei company aside from begrudgingly complying with whatever changes the guards made.

"No, I think I'll stick around." Dimitri shrugged. He seemed pretty nonchalant about the whole thing, considering that, viewed even at its simplest, the choice to stay was a monumentally life-impacting one. "There's no place else I have to be."

Speaking with unexpected (yet somehow still appropriately distant) warmth, Olga replied, "You're a good man, Dimitri Viktorovich," and slipped out of the room on her way to check on Alexandra.

The former tsarina was lying in bed with a headache. Tatiana was already with her, but she'd been reading to their poor mama (whose room was always rather poorly lit, because bright lights made her head hurt worse) for several hours now, so she was likely growing tired.

For a while after this surprising comment, Dimitri kept reminding himself to ask Olga how she knew his late father's name was Viktor. He'd never told any of the imperial children that; not even Cook knew his parents' names.

But, thanks to the revolution and other distractions, he would keep forgetting to ask her, and the day would come – much too soon – when it would be too late.

In short, he was never to get his answer.

However, it is entirely possible that Nicholas found out (it's not hard to learn such things when you're the Tsar of all Russia) and at some point, for whatever reason, disclosed this information to his eldest daughter.

Maria, who was nearby, knitting what looked like a sock (except that she had turned the heel twice by mistake), suddenly flung her needles down and gave Dimitri a moist-eyed glare. "There's no reason for you to act like we _need_ you here! You should just go like everyone else. Don't pretend like you don't hate us, too! We don't _want_ your pity!"

With that, she fled the room.

Dimitri gaped in shock for a moment at the space where she'd been standing. This wasn't like her. This wasn't the same girl who'd thrown a chocolate to him a little over a decade ago when he'd haphazardly stumbled across Alexei's secret.

Anastasia had been rolling a ball for Pooka to chase after at the top of the staircase. She took in her sister's outburst with surprise too. Maria hadn't said much since she'd recovered; this was the most she'd spoken in what felt like forever. It was like she was possessed. Not once in her entire life could Anastasia recall dear Mashka so much as raising her voice at a servant, let alone blowing up at one.

She followed her sister, Pooka – the ball in his mouth – following. Alexei followed too, ordering Dimitri to wheel him after his sisters. He was well enough currently to walk (though very slowly and with an obvious limp), but whenever he needed to be somewhere quickly, he still used the chair – and Dimitri to push it for him.

Maria was curled up under a painting of Ivan the Terrible, her back against the wall and knees to her chest, when Anastasia and Pooka reached her.

Pooka dropped the ball near Maria and let out a low whimper.

She ignored him, buried her face deeper, and sobbed.

"Mashka, what's wrong?" Anastasia's hand was on her trembling shoulder.

Maria looked up, her big blue eyes so wide and hollow they looked like empty tea saucers, sniffling. "Don't tell me you haven't noticed yet."

"Noticed what?"

Swallowing hard, Maria reached up and raked her fingers through her hair. When she pulled her hand back, thick auburn clumps remained in her palm.

"Oh, _Mashka_!"

"I'm losing _all_ of it," she wept bitterly. "Botkin says this happens sometimes, after the measles. I'm going to be bald and ugly. And no one will ever love me."

"That's not true," Anastasia said firmly. " _We_ love you. And it doesn't matter about your hair, not even a little bit. It's going to grow back."

"You can say that because nothing's wrong with _your_ hair."

"Wait right here!" Anastasia ran out of the room.

"What's she doing?" Dimitri whispered to Alexei.

Alexei shrugged. "I have no idea." He looked over his shoulder and called, " _Ana_?"

A few moments later, she returned, carrying a pair of scissors. Taking a deep breath, she lifted up her own long red hair and began hacking it all off, piece by piece, curls falling in careless clumps to the floor.

When she finished, her hair a short, wild mess, Anastasia dropped the scissors to the floor. "Okay, how about _now_?"

Maria just blinked at her in horror. "Mama will-"

"Oh, she'll be _appalled_ ," Anastasia sighed. "Like she always is. I didn't do it for her. I did it for _you_. There's nothing for you to be sad over, because now we've _both_ lost our hair."

Alexei pulled himself up out of his wheelchair and limped over to his sisters, putting his hand in Anastasia's, letting their fingers interlock as if they were small children crossing a street together.

"Dimitri," he ordered, "go get a razor. I'm going to shave my hair off, too."

"Oh, Alyosha, no!" Maria staggered awkwardly to her feet. "You _can't_. Mama will be more upset about your hair than Anastasia's. Besides, it's such a pretty color."

Alexei rolled his eyes. "Don't be silly, Marie."

"But–" she tried.

He held up a hand and went on. "Of _course_ I'm going to shave it off. You'll have to shave off yours anyway, or else you'll be shedding everywhere and it will grow back in funny – or worse, not at all." Sighing gently, Alexei arched a brow at a small bald patch on his sister's head. "So we're going to be baldies together. You and me. Bald as babies. I'll finally match my nickname perfectly. And with Ana's hair as short as a boy's, we'll make such a funny group, the three of us. We'll be so jolly with laughter and inside jokes, we won't even mind how horrid we all look. And, by the time we care again, our hair will be back."

"Mama–"

"Mama won't mind once we make her laugh and come to see it in a positive light," Alexei said cheerfully. "Papa can help with that." He noticed Dimitri was still in the room with them. "What? You're still here? Go on, then! Get that razor. Even with my limp I could have gotten it and been back by now."

"Do it, Dimitri," Maria said softly, giving in. "It will be all right."

So Dimitri got the razor and helped Alexei shave his head. He was afraid the entire time of giving him a nick and making him bleed, no matter how often the former tsarevich reminded his companion that small cuts (though they bled more than for average people) were not really so life-threatening to a hemophiliac as was the common belief. As long as Dimitri didn't grasp his head and smash it against something, Alexei pointed out, this was highly unlikely to end in a fatality.

In the end it was managed, and Alexei seemed pleased, examining his hairless reflection in a small hand-mirror with an amused nod.

Dimitri then made a choice of his own. After helping Anastasia even out her new boy-cut, he put the scissors down, picked up the razor he had used on Alexei, and – glancing at Maria, whose facial expression was more befitting her old self now – began to shave off his own hair.

Alexei clapped, Anastasia laughed, chortling in a very unlady-like manner, and Maria put her hand to her mouth. She had not expected a servant – regardless of his decade of friendship with them – to make such a sacrifice for her.

In a way, Maria almost saw this as a stronger display of loyalty than his decision to stay under house arrest with them.

* * *

"Something is wrong," Tatiana said, examining her camera. "The shutter is stuck."

Dimitri looked up from his chess game with Alexei; Anastasia and Maria stopped writing in their diaries and glanced over at their second-eldest sister.

Because Dimitri, Alexei, and Anastasia wore hats, no one knew about their hair yet. A few short stray wisps of Anastasia's hair stuck out, framing her face, making it look as if the rest if it might simply be tucked up under the hat. Maria wore a cloth turban, but Tatiana had already guessed about _her_ hair. She studied some nursing, so it was not as much a shock to her as it was to Anastasia.

"Don't look at _me_ , your highness," said Lili, licking the end of a length of scarlet thread and looping it through a needle. "I don't know anything about cameras or taking pictures."

"Here." Dimitri stood and walked over to her. "Let me see."

Tatiana's forehead crinkled. "Do you _know_ anything about cameras, Dimitri?"

He didn't, really, but he wasn't about to admit that. Besides, if it was just that one button jammed, he thought it might not require extensive knowledge to get it to pop back out again. "Sure, why not?"

The second eldest grand duchess arched an eyebrow, not looking even remotely convinced. Still, she handed the camera over to him.

It took a few seconds, one wasted photograph as the flash went off, taking a picture of his boots, and – knowing film was probably very expensive – a rough but nearly inaudible cuss, but Dimitri got the shutter fixed in the end, handing it back to Tatiana.

Suddenly Anastasia jumped up, slamming her diary shut. "Take a picture of _me_ , Tatya!" With this, she ripped off her hat and posed dramatically.

"Me too!" cried Alexei, following suit and ripping off his own hat.

Lili – who had chosen to brave house arrest, who had not seen dark spots and felt weak, close to fainting, when the tsar abdicated – swayed and nearly blacked out now, at the sight of Anastasia's hair and Alexei's lack of it.

A guard, obviously trying not to laugh, had to reach out and steady her.

Dimitri sighed and took off his hat.

Tatiana, slowly realizing what this all meant, smiled. "Mama will have a fit."

Anastasia stuck out her tongue.

" _Imp_ ," she muttered, but raised the camera to snap a photograph all the same. "All of you." Tatiana motioned for Dimitri to go stand next to them and for Maria to join as well, after removing her turban.

It was a moment Dimitri would often look back on and feel both happy and sad at once.

The four of them leaning in close together and making faces as Tatiana took the picture... With his shaved head, Dimitri looked like one of them. You couldn't see any real difference between him and Alexei, or even Maria, save for her softer features and curves.

It was the one moment in his life Dimitri could remember ever truly feeling like he was part of something beyond himself. Not just an attached servant but part of the Romanov family.

* * *

One thing that made no sense to Dimitri – irking him like a constant itch he couldn't scratch – was the continued presence of Derevenko.

The handful of servants that had stayed on consisted of persons who had nowhere else to go or who had grown attached to the former imperial family – not for their status, but as _people –_ and couldn't bear to leave them.

Derevenko was neither.

Certainly he had no fondness for Alexei. The only look Dimitri had seen him give the boy since his father abdicated was a slow, cold smirk.

At first he'd wondered if maybe Derevenko really _was_ keeping himself in quarantine to avoid catching the measles (some breakouts had been reported outside the palace as well, none of them as carefully contained as Maria's illness). Such being the case, he would surely leave after Maria fully recovered and Botkin assured everybody it was safe to go about freely once again.

Yet, Maria had gotten better, lost her hair, even had some of it start to grow back like a small blanket of red-brown fuzz, and Derevenko stayed on.

What _is_ his game? Dimitri thought furiously. If only it was possible to stay one step ahead of the rat!

But even knowing Derevenko was up to something didn't cushion the horrible blow on the day Dimitri walked into Alexei's room only to see the former tsarevich being ordered about like a common coal-boy.

"No excuses, young Citizen Romanov, you're just like any other Russian child now, no one special, and you _will_ go down to the library and carry my letter for Gibbes," Derevenko was saying haughtily as Dimitri slunk unnoticed through the doorway and stationed himself near the window. "I have _seen_ you walk, Alexei. I don't care how long it takes you, or how slow you need to go, but I will insist you run this errand for me, or I will not assist you back into your wheelchair the next time you topple out of it."

"The next time you knock me out of it, you mean."

So Alexei _had_ grown somewhat aware of Derevenko's disdain after all, then.

Dimitri shivered involuntarily. How could this boy, who spoke so darkly, so above his years in tone and meaning, be the same childish fifteen-year-old who shaved his head just to cheer up his sister? Yet it only made him respect Alexei more, seeing what he was becoming – even without the prospect of being tsar one day – and want so badly to debag Derevenko and pitch him into a freezing fountain. To see him humiliated – shaking from cold and rage, lips turning various alternating hues of dark blue and purple – as he was humiliating Alexei.

 _Why don't you tell your papa?_ Dimitri knew, in his place, raised as Alexei was raised, he wouldn't stand for this insult. He'd snitch in a heartbeat. Go running straight to Nicholas. And yet not one word had Alexei spoken in Dimitri's hearing against Derevenko. Not even to Anastasia, who he told practically _everything_ to!

Alexei limped off, clutching the letter he was to deliver, wincing as if each step was a lever pushing broken glass down into his swollen joints.

Derevenko still hadn't noticed Dimitri. Grinning wickedly, he stuffed some silverware from a breakfast tray left on Alexei's bed into his coat pockets.

So that was it! He was planning to steal as much wealth as he could before he left them. He wasn't going to leave the Romanovs' empty-handed.

Worse than a rat, he was a pig. A greedy, selfish, horrible _pig_!

And he didn't stop at silverware either. Looking back over his shoulder, Dimitri saw him stuff something gold and green into his pocket, the ornate little object clanking and chafing shamelessly against the stolen spoons and knives.

It was, of course, Anastasia's music box. Alexei had asked her, the night before when he couldn't sleep, to loan it to him, and she had, winding it up so its lullaby would calm him and then leaving, taking the necklace with her. Derevenko had no way of opening it without the necklace, but he didn't care; the perfectly carved gold alone would make it worth selling on the black market, even if it _was_ impossible to wind up.

Petty thievery was one thing, but stealing the music box – the one thing Anastasia loved more than all her other possessions put together – was a step too far.

While not agreeing, and still wanting to pitch Derevenko into icy water, Dimitri could see the practical side of taking some silver. He knew his own morals weren't perfect, sometimes even thinking that, in another life, he might have become a thief or conman. But that didn't justify this kind of spite to him.

It wasn't only the money. It couldn't have been for somebody like Derevenko. He was trying to hurt them by striking close to the heart of the former imperial family. Particularly the children whose command he had bristled under for so many years.

Their pride, their favorite belongings.

Well, Dimitri wasn't going to stand for it! "Put it back."

Derevenko whirled around. "Put what back, kitchen boy?"

"Don't be stupid," Dimitri told him. "You know what you took."

"You mean this spoon?" He pulled Alexei's silver spoon from his pocket. "Don't be such a fool. Do you really think the guards haven't been helping themselves to silverware for nearly two weeks now? I only want my fair share."

"Keep the silver," Dimitri snapped. "If you can take that and look at yourself in the mirror, why should I care? But you're _not_ taking Anastasia's music box."

Derevenko tried to brush past him. "You didn't see anything, not if you know what's good for you."

"Is that a _threat_?" scoffed Dimitri, planting himself more firmly in front of Derevenko. "It's pretty pathetic."

" _Get_ out of my way," Derevenko hissed through clenched teeth.

Dimitri rolled his eyes. "Am I supposed to be scared of _you_? Some posh little sailor nanny?"

Growling, Derevenko reached out and shoved Dimitri into the wall behind him.

"What's the matter?" he taunted as Dimitri struggled to his feet, back throbbing. "Did this little sailor nanny push too hard?"

"I'm going to tell the tsa... I mean, Nicholas," Dimitri panted. "I'm going to tell him what you've been doing. Treating Alexei like your own personal valet, stealing... He might not have power over the Russian people anymore, but he still has enough personal influence to have you sacked."

"Oh yeah?" Derevenko grabbed him by the shirt and elbowed him in the gut. "Well, you can tell bloody Nicholas and that German bitch of his anything you want, kitchen boy."

Dimitri bent over involuntarily from the pain shooting through his stomach. " _Why_ , Derevenko?" he groaned. "Why are you doing this? Alexei _cared_ about you! They all did. Why do you hate them so much?"

"Alexei cared about me?" he laughed bitterly. "Oh, that's _rich_! Do you know what he used to call me because I didn't run fast enough to suit him? Because I wasn't as slim or quick as the half-starved urchin you were? Fatty.

"They had their prissy little English cousins here once. Alexei took great pleasure in telling them to 'watch Fatty run', making jokes about how my backside jiggled.

"And Anastasia? You know why Alexei loves her so much? Because she's as much a monster as he is. Maybe more. She once set up a bucket of water to fall on my head. The _water_ missed me. The bucket, however, gave me a concussion and a lump on the head that made me wake in the middle of the night vomiting. Still, every day I had to be up and at it to entertain their oh so precious Alexei, who was so sick.

"All we are to the Romanovs are instruments for their amusement. Useful as long as we entertain them. It's time they learned how it feels to be nothing, to be forced to do things they don't want to."

"Whatever their problem is," grunted Dimitri, "at least the Romanovs don't hold grudges over a few careless words and rough pranks pulled by _children_." Anastasia and Alexei weren't saints in their childhood, so what? _Derevenko_ was the monster here, not the two youngest Romanovs.

"What does a boot-licker like you understand about pride? You'd clean Alexei's feet with your tongue if he ordered you to." Derevenko snorted condescendingly. "Sooner or later you're going to have to accept that your little idols are no better than anyone else now. Nicholas couldn't lead three men into a dining hall, let alone an army. He's _weak_. His children don't have the right to order the likes of you and me around anymore. It's kinder not to keep deluding them."

"Alexei Romanov is a better man than you'll ever be, Derevenko, and he's still just a kid, really." Dimitri arched a brow challengingly. "Was it 'kinder' of me to break your delusion?"

Angry, Derevenko spun around and grabbed Alexei's toy rifle from its place leaning against the bedpost, thrusting the butt forcefully into Dimitri's face.

A few years ago, when he was younger and smaller, the blow might have knocked Dimitri to the ground. As it was, a loud _crunch_ ing sound told him his nose was broken even _before_ the stream of blood started pouring out of it.

Whatever Derevenko intended to do next was interrupted by a young woman's yelp of sickly surprise and a dog's defensive bark in the doorway.

Anastasia, carrying Pooka, had been on her way into her brother's room, arriving just in time to see Dimitri jabbed in the nose with the miniature rifle. She'd overheard none of the conversation before this, but she didn't like the look on Derevenko's face right then (and it hadn't escaped her notice how bossy the man had become with Alexei since they'd been put under house arrest), so she took Dimitri's side immediately. He was _clearly_ the victim here, anyway.

"Hey!" she shouted, her blue eyes darkening and narrowing. "What do you think you're doing? Don't hit him!"

Pooka lept from her arms, growling threateningly at Derevenko.

"Keep your dog away from me!"

"Don't tell me what to do with my own dog!" Anastasia planted her hands on her hips. "Now what exactly is going on in here?"

Before Derevenko had a chance to answer, Pooka sprung at him. The dog latched onto Derevenko's coat pocket with his teeth, like he was trying to get at something inside.

Dimitri, lowering his blood-stained palm from his nose, realized that it was the same pocket he'd seen Derevenko skip the music box into. Somehow, Pooka must have figured out what he was up to. Good old mutt.

But Derevenko wasn't having any of this. He was furiously spinning, trying to shake Pooka off. And, when that didn't work, he started trying to strike the dog with the butt of the toy he still clutched.

"What's _wrong_ with you?" screeched Anastasia, charging Derevenko like a mad bull. "Don't you dare hurt my dog! Don't you _dare_!" She grasped the toy rifle, trying to yank it away from him.

Derevenko started trying to shake _her_ off, too, like she was of no more consequence than her dog.

Pooka finally started to peel away from Derevenko's coat, but the pocket came with him, tearing at the seams.

The music box tumbled out onto the floor.

Anastasia gasped. How _could_ he? Derevenko had been with her family for so many years. He'd been with them even longer than _Dimitri_! He knew as well as anyone how much that music box meant to her. How could he try and steal it like this? Had he no conscience?

* * *

"I tell you what, Master," said Bartok, climbing out of Alexei's breast pocket up to his shoulder, where he perched like a tamed eagle. "I don't like the way this guy's been ordering you around. It shows he has no interest in your health."

"It's all right, really," Alexei replied, a little sadly. "I just don't understand why..." His voice trailed off. "It's just, in spite of everything, I thought we were friends. If even Derevenko's only been waiting for a chance to get back at me, who's really on our side? It's not _me_ I'm scared for, Bartok, it's my family. Especially Ana. Now that there's no more old Russia, I don't matter so much, and deep down I think I've always known I won't live to grow up–" He clearly had more to add, but he paused for a moment, lost deep in thought.

"Don't be so gloomy, Master," Bartok tried, brushing his wing against the former Tsarevich's cheek. "It isn't true.

"You know my nephew Izzie? He's a fruit bat, but he was born with high blood pressure. Everyone just expected him to keel over one day, mid-mango. And, remember, he don't eat no meat. No blood, even. Still they expected him to croak. Anyway, believe it or not, he never did. Lives a happy life in Perm to this very day!"

"Thanks, but... Well, like I said, it's not me I'm worried about. I'm not afraid of dying. I just feel sorry for the others." He sighed heavily. "Who's going to look after them? If Derevenko can have secretly hated me all this time, what if... I mean, who's next? What if even Dimitri's not really on our side? Part of me always thought, when something happened, I could ask him to look after Ana for me and he would. Now I'm not certain. I hate that."

"You're just being silly now, Master," snorted Bartok. "Dimitri _loves_ you. Can't you tell?"

Alexei turned his head, his nose almost bumping Bartok's, making the little bat jump back a step. "Really? You're sure?"

"Is this the face of a bat who would lie to you?" Bartok smiled innocently, turned to the side, and posed.

Alexei smiled back for a second, though the light in his eyes and the joy in his expression quickly waned.

"Come _on_ ," cheered Bartok, "for a minute there you had your old spark back."

"I'm glad I've still got _you_ , anyway," he told the bat, nuzzling his face against him.

"Master, I'm gonna tell you something," he said, looking both ways and taking a deep breath. "Before Rasputin died, he told me he thought it was possible that if you lived to seventeen your body would heal itself. That you wouldn't be a hemophiliac anymore. That you'd somehow outgrow it."

"But Rasputin was a fraud."

"Even so, wouldn't it be great if he was right about that? About this one little thing?"

Alexei nodded.

"I mean, heck," Bartok went on, "that's only, what, not even two years off? So don't count yourself out just yet."

The sound of screaming and crashing came from down the hallway Alexei had just limped out of, back where his room (and Derevenko) was.

"Did you hear that?" Alexei asked, swallowing.

" _Did I hear it_?" exclaimed Bartok. "Master, I'm a _bat_. There's nothing I _don't_ hear."

"That sounded like Ana." He turned, starting to limp in the opposite direction, pushing on the wall to make himself go faster against his fragile body's will. "Come on, we've got to go back."

"But, the letter..."

"Derevenko's letter will have to wait. That's my sister screaming."

A furious bark that sounded like Pooka came next and, letting out a startled, " _Whoa_!" Bartok dived back into Alexei's pocket.

* * *

Anastasia was pushed against the wall, Alexei's toy rifle pressed horizontally across her neck.

"You listen here, you ugly little Romanov," Derevenko snarled. "Don't you _ever_ raise your bloody diamond-encrusted hand to strike me again! You're _nothing_ now. Do you understand? I could do anything I wanted to you right now and no one would save you."

"Wanna bet?" Dimitri tackled him from behind, forcing him to the floor.

After Anastasia had discovered Derevenko's theft, slowly recovering from shock, she'd raised her hand to slap him across the face, and he'd responded by using the toy rifle – as well as his extra weight and strength – against her.

Only Dimitri wasn't having that. Straddling Derevenko, he bent over like a jackknife and unceremoniously punched him in the face. "I'm going to kill you if you _ever_ talk to her like that again."

Derevenko reached up and closed his hand around Dimitri's throat.

Seeing at once what he intended, Anastasia hollered, " _No_!" and kicked him as hard as she could, digging the toe of her shoe into his bruising flesh. All she could think of, for that horrible moment, was Dimitri turning blue and struggling for air... She had to help him; Derevenko might actually _kill_ him if she didn't!

Cursing, he let go of Dimitri and rolled over. He made a grab for Anastasia's lacy skirt, pulling her down beside him.

Automatically, she swatted at him, clawing like a wild animal.

In the ensuing scuffle, her skirt tore, a pathetically girlish shriek (a disgustingly high-pitched noise Anastasia had not even known she was capable of making) flew out of her throat without warning, and a gun shot unexpectedly went off – followed by the whiz of a speeding bullet – making a low hole in the wall above their heads.

They immediately froze and looked to the door.

A guard, his weapon raised, stood in the doorway, Alexei by his side. "What the hell is going on in here?"

Anastasia opened her mouth to speak, but at the sight of her brother's pale, horror-stricken face, began to sob instead. _Why_ was this _happening_ to them? Were they really such horrible people? What had they done to deserve this?

On his knees, Dimitri pulled her to him, letting her cry into his chest.

The guard looked at the torn lace in Derevenko's hand and the scratches on his face. Believing Derevenko had tried to rape the former tsar's youngest daughter, he fixed his rifle more firmly in his direction. "You will leave the palace immediately. I will personally escort you out. You have twenty minutes to pack."

Without another word, just one hard glance back at Dimitri, Derevenko rose up and allowed the armed guard to lead him back to his own quarters to gather his possessions.

That was to be the last time any of them would see the man who had once been a trusted servant of Alexei Romanov, the boy who should have been the next Tsar of Russia.


	5. Romanov Falling

_Romanov Falling_

Anastasia had come to realize the ballroom was one of the few places in the palace where the ever-increasing guards didn't follow her.

Well, that, the lavatory, and (usually) the bedrooms. Everywhere else, you couldn't seem to get away from their sharp eyes.

Maria liked the company, always having gone weak in the knees for a gentleman in a uniform, but Anastasia wished they'd just get lost once in a while.

What exactly did they imagine the family would _do_ if they left them alone for a few hours? Burn their own home down? Write some kind of scandalous letter and find a way to send it out?

True, a few of the guards _did_ seem genuinely concerned for their safety – especially after their misconception of the Derevenko incident Anastasia had never bothered to correct, so angry with him she almost _wanted_ people to think the worst – but mostly they just behaved like complete pests.

She wasn't sure what it was about the ballroom that kept them out. Was it the lavishness? Even under a layer of dust that hadn't been cleared since her papa's abdication, crystal still winked off the chandeliers in the murky morning light. Maybe it had more to do with the fact that there was an echo, and – as long as they were standing outside – they'd hear anything they truly needed to. A scream, a fight, anything of importance, really, would carry...

Whatever the reason, Anastasia was glad of it. Sometimes she liked nothing better than to slip away and sit on the steps in front of that old royal portrait that had been painted back when she was seven or eight, looking out at the empty room, remembering.

More often than she ought to have, she 'borrowed' a few of her papa's cigarettes – smuggling them into the ballroom – and had herself a couple good smokes.

This was where Dimitri found her, thinking herself quite alone, puffing away.

He'd entered by way of a side balcony, and so had already seen what she was doing, but she – unaware of this – tried frantically to put out the cigarette and hide the smoldering remains behind her back.

"Hello, Dimitri," she said, a little stiffly, standing slowly and trying to turn her back away from him.

He smirked and began moving so that, whichever way she turned, he was still facing exactly what she didn't want him to see.

Basically, he made it impossible to keep her little secret with him orbiting around her like that.

"Hey...wha..." she spluttered out, irritated. "Why are you circling me? What, were you a vulture in another life?"

"Taking up smoking a little young, are we, your highness?" Still grinning teasingly at her, he raised his eyebrows.

Letting out an exasperated sigh, Anastasia took her hand out from behind her back, showing the pitiful remains of her cigarette. "Don't tell Tatiana, okay? I'll never hear the end of it."

He chuckled. "My lips..." Here he stopped and made a zipping motion across his mouth. "...are sealed."

"Good." She sat down again.

"Actually, we had the same idea." Dimitri reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a pack.

"For your information," Anastasia told him, raking her fingers through her short red hair, "I've been smoking since I was twelve. Papa has this idea that the odd one can help break up chest congestion and calm the nerves. He used to give them to me more often than I had to sneak one, before this stupid war made us ration everything. Maria and Olga smoke, too. But you know how Governess is. She'd tell Mama, and I _know_ she'd disapprove because it doesn't look..." She wrinkled her nose and did air quotes on the next two words, "... _Lady-like_."

Dimitri snickered at that.

"When did _you_ start?"

He thought for a moment. "About three years ago? I stole some of Derevenko's at Livadia."

Anastasia pulled her knees to her chest and looked up at him, a slight pout forming on her lips. "That was my last one."

"Oh." Dimitri lowered himself down beside her and held out the pack. "Here. Help yourself."

"You're a saint." Anastasia reached in and slid one out.

Pulling a lighter out of the same pocket he'd retrieved the pack from, he lit it for her, then lit his own.

He leaned back on the step, taking a long drag.

Anastasia exhaled a puff of smoke and scooted closer to him. "I can't remember the last time those chandeliers were on."

His eyes followed hers up to the ceiling. "It's been a while."

"Did you know next year was supposed to be my coming out ball?"

"Coming out of _what_ , exactly?"

"Into society." Anastasia exhaled sharply through her nose, puffs of smoke curling out of the corners of her mouth and nostrils.

"You would have hated it," Dimitri said. They would have expected her to be prim and proper; the Anastasia he'd come to know over the last ten years was wholly incapable of being such. Unless, of course, she was in the process of mimicking someone who really _was_ all things courtly.

"Probably," she agreed, lifting her fingers to her mouth and taking the cigarette out. "It's not really that I _want_ to be a high society lady, I just hate being told I _can't_ now." Her gaze shifted to a rat trap in the middle of the floor. "And I miss dancing. I'd give almost anything for just one last dance down there."

Stubbing out his cigarette, he reached for Anastasia's hand, pulling her up. "Come on."

"Why?"

"Trust me." Dimitri took her cigarette away and stubbed it out, too, then led her down the steps into the heart of the ballroom.

"How can there be so many memories in this one spot?" Anastasia mused softly, taking it all in, remembering how it felt to be hoisted up and spun around. _Oh, Papa!_ How it felt to be totally and completely happy, in a world that actually made _sense_. Nothing like the chaos her life had turned into as of late.

"Anastasia Nicholaevna," Dimitri said grandly, bowing for added affect. "May I have this dance?"

She smiled and allowed herself to be pulled into his arms.

They began to go through a few steps, but Dimitri suddenly stopped and looked at her with a bemused expression. "Why are you leading?"

Anastasia blushed. "Sorry."

It was probably the fact that he was a servant and she knew him largely as the playmate of her brother that made her take charge like that. She wasn't dancing with him as she would an officer, or even the former tsar, she was dancing with him as she would a childish companion.

Or perhaps it was not that at all; perhaps it was just the fact that, when she danced with her sisters or Alexei, she always led. Her siblings never grudged her that. And it _had_ been a while since she'd danced properly with anyone else.

"All right," Dimitri tried again, counting in his head (he wasn't exactly the best dancer). "Let's start over."

This time Anastasia let him take the lead, dictating her steps and movements, spinning her around.

Her eyes closed as she spun in and out of his grasp, and something strange happened to her. It was as if the room was lit up again, as if every chandelier was emitting its winking yellow light, rainbows reflecting off the crystals. And there were people, fading into the background, like at a grand ball. And though no music played, Anastasia could hear the rhythm of a tune. She could hear a balalaika and violins...feel the deep base of a cello...

It was...it was... It was rippling through her; tearing her down and building her back up again.

There was something horrible and wonderful about it at the same time.

Someone who felt what she was feeling now, as her eyes opened and locked with Dimitri's, could not be a shvibzik. Imps didn't have butterflies in their stomachs or the desire to feel another person's lips on their own. Everybody knew that.

And if she wasn't her family's little _Shvibzik_ anymore, and she wasn't the daughter of the tsar anymore, then who _was_ she?

The answer made her cheeks flush with delight: she was nobody.

Nobody at all.

While that should have been upsetting, only a further reminder of the chaos she couldn't escape, it was not.

Because a nobody could kiss a servant if she wanted to. And, inexplicably, she found she most certainly wanted to.

"I'm feeling a little...dizzy..." Anastasia said as their dance slowed.

"Kind of lightheaded?" Dimitri asked.

"Yeah."

"Me too. Probably from spinning," he suggested, pulling away from her but still grasping her hands in his. "Maybe we should stop."

"We _have_ stopped," Anastasia told him.

Dimitri felt his chest tighten. What was _happening_ to him? Why did he have new thoughts of pulling her back into his arms again to do something other than merely dance with her?

He'd held her before, when comforting her after the scuffle with Derevenko, but that had been different.

She's a _princess_ , he reminded himself. The abdication didn't change the fact that her blood was as blue as a sapphire.

He knew he shouldn't be thinking of her like this, as though she were just a common girl he might flirt with or steal a kiss from.

" _Anastasia_..." he got out. "I..."

"Yes?" She was leaning in, her eyes halfway closed, not making this easy for him.

With all the will power he could muster, Dimitri pulled back again and patted her hand. "I have to go. Botkin will come looking for me."

Anastasia watched, rather dismayed, as he slipped away, leaving her standing there alone in the middle of the empty ballroom.

* * *

"Pass the butter," said Tatiana.

No one passed it. The little pair were too busy whispering back and forth; Alexei was late coming down to tea (and so was not yet present); and Olga stared unblinking – the expression on her face pale and drained of emotion – at something concealed in her lap.

"The _butter_ , please," she repeated.

Maria giggled at something Anastasia was muttering into her ear; Olga's face remained unmoved. The guards right outside might have heard, but it wasn't their job to wait on the former tsar's children. Besides, they were too engrossed in a game of dominoes to bother.

The only change in the room came from the doorway, where Dimitri was wheeling Alexei in.

"All right, Olenka, _what_ is so riveting?" Tatiana sighed, reaching quick as lightning under the table and snatching what appeared to be some sort of newspaper away from her elder sister.

" _No_ , Tatya!" Her hands scrambled to her lap, desperately eager to spare her sister, but they simply were not fast enough.

"What on _earth_?" Tatiana's eyes widened, lifting the paper close to her eyes. "Is that meant to be Mama?"

Pushing Alexei in and handing him his napkin, Dimitri leaned over the table to see what Tatiana was staring at.

It was some kind of tasteless political cartoon depicting a naked woman very generously endowed in the chest wearing a crown in bed with an ugly bearded man.

Maria stopped whispering with Anastasia, got up, and leaned against Tatiana's shoulder. "Who's that with her?"

"I..." Tatiana's voice was shaky. "I think it's supposed to be Rasputin."

Knowing that it most certainly was, but wishing to lighten the mood somewhat and comfort the girls, Dimitri said, "Nah, it can't be. There would be stink lines drawn all around him."

Anastasia smiled, looking up. Then she promptly remembered she was upset with him for not kissing her in the ballroom and hastily hid her amusement behind her teacup.

Tatiana didn't take the bait, didn't spare herself the burning humiliation. "This is absurd. Those idiotkas should hold her as a _heroine_! She's the one who killed him ten years ago!" She flung the paper down. "Instead they accuse her of...of..." She couldn't even _say_ it. "How _can_ they?"

Maria patted her shoulder. "It's all right."

Tatiana buried her face in her hands. "No it's not," she murmured. "Don't you understand? Nothing will ever be okay _again_!"

Alexei chimed in. "Bartok says the unrest could settle down as soon as people start to forget about us."

Removing her hands, Tatiana sat up ramrod straight and gave Alexei a gentle yet highly critical look. "Bartok is a _bat_ , Sunbeam. Bats don't talk."

"And even if they did," said Olga quietly, "I wouldn't take _your_ bat's word as gospel. He did used to belong to Rasputin, didn't he?"

"That's not fair," said Alexei, his tone defensive.

"Well, it's a moot point, because he _doesn't_ talk," retorted Tatiana, swallowing hard.

"Yes, he does," Alexei insisted, leaning over the table. "Ana, tell her."

"Alexei's right," Anastasia admitted. "Bartok used to scold me as bad as Gilliard when I was a little girl."

"You imagined it," Tatiana decided dismissively. "It was a game."

"Rubbish!" huffed Alexei. "Maria's heard him talk, too."

"Have you, Mashka?" asked Olga.

"Well, I _thought_ I did," she said, smiling. "Once."

"Tatiana's right," sighed Alexei, dropping his hands to the side of his wheelchair. "It doesn't matter anyway. Bartok can talk, but he can't save us. Nobody can, and nothing is ever going to be okay again."

"Baby, I didn't mean–" began Tatiana, clearly feeling guilty.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to tell Mama you upset me," he said stingingly. "That's all you're _really_ anxious about."

" _Alyosha_!" snapped Olga.

"I don't blame you, though," he continued darkly. "This is all my own fault anyway, isn't it? For being a bleeder. If I hadn't been so sick, Mama and Papa wouldn't have tried to keep me – and themselves – away from everything. Russia would still love us today. They wouldn't believe such stupid things about Mama. Because they'd know better."

Tatiana closed her eyes and shuddered, cringing like she'd been stabbed. "Please don't let him speak such nonsense, Dimitri."

Why was _he_ being dragged into this debate? Dimitri thought, frustrated.

Then again, it was just Tatiana's _way_ , really. Like Alexandra, she could rarely bring herself to find true fault or feel lasting anger towards Alexei. It was easier to blame somebody else for his occasional outbursts. Alexandra used to blame Olga, but Tatiana didn't dare; maybe because she secretly felt sorry for her being the eldest with so much on her shoulders. So she usually turned, though rarely with any vigor or true fury, on Dimitri. He'd almost gotten used to it, despite feeling the initial outrage stabbing his pride as suddenly and harshly as Alexei's sharp words pierced Tatiana's heart.

All he could do was clear his throat awkwardly and say, more to his boots than anything else, "No, of course not."

"I'm leaving," Alexei decided.

"You haven't eaten anything, Baby," Maria noticed, concerned.

"I'm not hungry, and I'm not your baby."

Wordlessly, Dimitri reached for the back of his wheelchair, but Alexei shot him a scowl. "My arms aren't broken. I don't _want_ you right now. Find something useful to do." With that, he painstakingly wheeled himself out of the room.

Anastasia's eyes lifted again, this time meeting Dimitri's sympathetically, her crossness forgotten.

He nodded, acknowledging her attention, then hastily shrugged and looked away.

Tears welled up in her eyes. Hot, angry tears, but also sadder than any she'd ever known.

Maria came back to sit beside her, taking her hand. She thought her younger sister was upset because of what Alexei said, and Anastasia chose to let her keep believing that. How could she have possibly explained – in front of the big pair, no less – that she was really hurt by Dimitri's apparent rejection of her?

* * *

Anastasia was sewing at the window, looking out at a row of bored guards, when Alexandra sent Lili for her.

"Your mama says you are to come at once," Lili said, her tone flat with what sounded like exhaustion.

"What's it about, Lili?" Anastasia asked, setting down her sewing and getting up to follow her – and, of course, a guard – out.

"I don't know," she mumbled.

Lili was a bad liar. Not to mention her red-rimmed eyes alone gave a lot away. Something terrible had happened, or else was _going_ to. Anastasia refused to let her fear show, however, and stuck her chin up a little higher.

Her sisters, Alexei, Botkin, and Dimitri were already in Alexandra's sitting room, waiting for her and Lili to arrive.

Nicholas showed up, accompanied by two more guards, a few moments after Anastasia and Lili took their seats; Lili beside Botkin, and Anastasia between Maria and Tatiana.

Maria squeezed her hand. She squeezed back.

"My darlings," began Alexandra, trying – and largely failing – to sound cheerful, "I have good news and bad news. No doubt you are anxious to hear all of it." She took a letter from her pocket, unfolding it. "I'll start with the good."

Alexei yawned and stuck a cracker in his pocket for Bartok.

"You will be pleased to hear that our old friend Vladimir, whom we lost touch with after your papa abdicated, made it out of the country and is currently in Paris with your Grandmama. He has expressed his intentions to marry Cousin Sophie, and these intentions have been favorably received."

"How _wonderful_!" exclaimed Maria, letting go of Anastasia's hand and clapping. "If only we could go to the wedding. They won't let us out of the country for that, will they?"

Alexandra's eyes grew misty and it took all her restraint to keep from crying in front of her children. "No, my dear, I'm afraid not."

"A card?" Maria asked. "The government will let us send a card, won't they? Surely there's nothing so wrong in _that_."

"We'll see," Nicholas answered for his wife with a forced smile.

"Now for the bad news," Alexandra pressed on, choking down her emotion. "They have... They have asked us to leave the palace."

" _What_?" cried Tatiana, outraged, leaping up to her feet. "But it's our _home_!"

"I know, dear, I know." Alexandra herself had had similar misgivings, but there was nothing to be done. "Still, they insist this place is far too large for us, and too conspicuous. They seem to think we will be safer sent away."

"Where are they sending us?" Olga asked.

"Tobolsk, I believe," Nicholas told her. "They have a house for our use being prepared for us there."

"Will they let us come back?" Maria wanted to know.

Alexandra shook her head.

"What? Not _ever_?" Anastasia blurted.

"It seems doubtful," Nicholas said quietly. "No matter. The important thing is that we're all together."

"I suppose we should start packing?" Olga said next.

"It can wait until tomorrow morning," Alexandra decided. "It's late. They will at least allow us the dignity of a good night's sleep – they owe us that much."

"What about the guards?" Maria wondered aloud. "Are they coming?"

Olga giggled involuntarily. Wasn't it just like Maria to want to know about the fate of their uniformed men before anything else?

"It's not likely, child," Nicholas sighed. "The _palace_ is not going anywhere; they still need men to guard it. So we'll probably have _new_ guards in Tobolsk."

Through it all, Alexei hadn't said a word. He didn't share in with his sisters and their questions. If he was holding back tears, it didn't show. His jaw was set determinedly and his expression was far away.

Anastasia hated to admit it, even to herself, but her little brother, right then, looked more like a Tsar of all Russia than her papa ever had.

* * *

"Dimitri?" Alexei leaned against the bedpost, watching his companion pack a suitcase and stifle curses under his breath.

"Yes?" He didn't look up, annoyed with all the rushed packing and the guards' lousy attitudes, intent on folding stiff army jackets with honorary medals. Not only was the dratted suitcase too small for the bulk of the jackets, but he needed to save room for the three boxes of lead soldiers Alexei was too old for yet still played with.

"If something bad happened to me," Alexei said softly, "would you look after Ana?"

"Sure, of course." Dimitri rotated the jackets and sucked his teeth in frustration. His tone was understandably curt.

"I mean _really_ bad," he clarified. "You'd make sure she was all right?"

"Yes," he huffed, lifting a box out. "Do you need all three boxes of soldiers?" Here, Dimitri glanced up briefly, but only for a response, not to take notice of the former tsarevich's facial expression.

Alexei shook his head.

He went back to packing. "Fine, just _one_ then."

"You promise?"

"Promise what?"

"To look after Ana!" groaned Alexei. What did it take to make him pay _attention_?

"Yes, yes, I _promise_." Dimitri tried to close the suitcase. When it didn't close, he threw himself, backside first, onto it, bouncing up and down until it snapped shut. _Finally_!

"Bartok, too?" he added.

"Yeah." He probably didn't even know what he was agreeing to, too focused on buckling the suitcase's side straps, now that it was closed.

Alexei took a deep breath and let his fingers wrap around the top of a sled that had been left out.

Glancing over his shoulder, Dimitri said, shortly, "That's too heavy for you."

"No, it isn't," Alexei said. "I can manage. I feel... I think I feel a little stronger today."

"If you're sure, then bring it to Lili. She'll make sure it gets put with the other outdoor stuff we're taking with us."

Alexei nodded, letting the sled go for a moment to reach into his pocket and pull out a gently folded letter. Setting it on the bed by the suitcase, he looked at Dimitri and said, "Give it to Ana, okay?"

He didn't bother asking why Alexei couldn't give it to her himself. Why the boy couldn't see he was too busy packing to play messenger right now. Dimitri just took it in stride and willed himself to remember to give it to her when he was done here.

Alexei grabbed the sled again, lifting it. "Dimitri?"

" _What_?" He couldn't keep the snappishness out of his voice. What on earth could the boy want _now_?

"You've been a good friend." He gave him a wistful smile. "Thank you for everything."

Where had _that_ come from? Dimitri almost brushed it off, but something didn't feel right.

He watched Alexei's back disappear, the boy's stride, though pained, becoming faster than it should have been. Why was he in such a hurry to get that sled to Lili?

His heart pounding, Dimitri reached for the letter. He knew he shouldn't read it, but he couldn't stop himself. He felt like he was in a slow-starting earthquake; one that began with tiny tremors which couldn't be truly noticed until the shaking became so violent it knocked you off your feet.

He goggled stupidly at the letter, speed-reading it with eyes widening in total disbelief.

Alexei wouldn't... He _wouldn't_!

" _Alexei_!" Dimitri shouted, running out into the hallway.

The letter had mentioned where to find him, so the family wouldn't have to search all over the palace when the time came. Dimitri halted to a stop at the top of the marble staircase he'd first discovered the secret of Alexei's hemophilia on.

Sure enough, there he was, at the bottom, lying there injured – or worse, _dead –_ with the sled by his side showing signs of having flipped over while being ridden.

For whatever reason, Alexei Romanov had thrown himself down a staircase on a sled in what Dimitri could only hope was a botched suicide attempt.


	6. Alexei Recovers

_Alexei Recovers_

The Tsarina was sitting at Alexei's bedside, holding his hand – quite possibly the only part of him that wasn't in pain – and trying to be strong. Trying so hard not to weep. It didn't matter that his eyes were closed or that the poor boy's body was so deeply in shock that his mind was in no state to notice whether his mother was crying or not. No, all that mattered was that she was strong. Strong for Baby. Her little Sunbeam would not awaken after the drugs Botkin had given him to help him sleep more soundly wore off to the sight of his mother in tears. Alexandra promised herself that much.

"I don't _understand_ ," said Tatiana, putting her hand on her mother's shoulder and squeezing it. "What _happened_?"

Nicholas, Botkin, and Anastasia, who had been the first to answer Dimitri's shouts for help after discovering the wounded former tsarevich at the bottom of the stairs, all looked to Dimitri now. The turn of their heads at Tatiana's words were almost simultaneous.

"The little idiot tried to ride his sled down the stairs," Dimitri blurted angrily, forgetting, it would seem, who he was talking to. " _That's_ what happened!"

Tatiana gasped at his tone and impertinence. Even if her brother wasn't the Tsarevich anymore this felt like it was a step too far.

Olga understood, though. "Dimitri's upset with him, and rightly so."

Alexandra swallowed hard and glared at her eldest daughter. "How can you?"

"Mama, Alexei tried to kill himself. On Dimitri's watch." Her eyes flickered from her mother up to Tatiana. "Think how you'd feel if it happened while _you_ were looking after him, Tatya."

"Baby wouldn't do that," murmured Alexandra, almost inaudibly. "There must... Dimitri must have..."

"Dimitri must have _what_ , Mama?" said Olga, her voice strained but her tone patient. "Forged Alyosha's goodbye letter to Anastasie? Betrayed us? _Pushed_ him down the stairs?" She shook her head. "You know he wouldn't do that. Think logically for a moment, Mama. If he was a traitor, he'd never have agreed to leave here and go to Tobolsk with us."

" _Olga_..." began Tatiana.

But Olga had more to say, cutting her off. "He didn't hurt Alyosha ten years ago, when he first learned our family's secret and joined us, and he didn't hurt him now. This is just like then."

"No it's not," Maria cut in, her voice cracking.

Olga was startled into silence; she was surprised because Maria hadn't said anything since she'd learned about Alexei's 'accident' with the sled. Not a single word to anyone. She'd just goggled and followed them all around like a frightened puppy.

"What do you mean, Mashka?" Tatiana asked.

"It's not like last time because..." She sniffled. "Because this time Baby knew... He _knew_ what he was doing. It wasn't just in fun."

Alexandra choked and a short stream of tears spilled down her cheeks. She had to let go of Alexei's hand for a moment to properly wipe them away.

"You silly girlie," sobbed Alexandra, dabbing her eyes. "Just look what you've made me do."

Anastasia, unable to take this a moment longer, turned and fled the room, pushing past Botkin and Nicholas. Both of whom tried to stop and comfort her.

She'd was having none of it, though. Alexandra's tears had been the final straw for her; she could stand no more. She needed time alone – with her own suffering not being smothered by everyone else's – and she needed it _now_.

Dimitri considered following her out, then decided against it. He had to remember his place. It wasn't his place to go chasing after Anastasia or her sisters. It was his place to look after Alexei. Maybe if he hadn't forgotten that, if his mind hadn't been elsewhere, this wouldn't have happened.

Yes, he was angry with Alexei, but – though he didn't show it – much angrier with himself.

And, seeing the pathetically limp ex-tsarevich lying there so helplessly, he could forgive Alexei.

Easily, he could forgive the poor boy.

Forgiving _himself_ , however, was another matter entirely. With himself, Dimitri was not so generous or moved by emotional attachment.

* * *

Dimitri paced the imperial library, picking up (and then promptly putting back down) various books without really looking at most of their titles. He tried his best to ignore the pair of guards following him with resentful expressions. They were probably annoyed that they'd been ordered to keep an eye on everyone close to the family, including servants who never did anything interesting.

They were bored, and they blamed Dimitri for it.

Well, what was one more blame to take on anyway? It was his fault what happened to Alexei, it was his fault he wasn't amusing enough for the guards...

Maybe tomorrow the sun wouldn't rise. Maybe it would wake up, take a look around, and decide to go back to sleep. And maybe _that_ would be his fault too.

Returning what was likely a very valuable copy of _Oliver Twist_ to its place on the shelf, Dimitri sighed.

"Dimitri?" It was a girl's voice, not one of the guards.

For a second, he thought it was Anastasia and felt his cheeks warm involuntarily, then he turned and realized it was _Olga_ Romanov standing behind him.

"Oh, hey," he said deflatedly. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to be certain you were all right."

"Your brother has almost been killed twice in my presence," Dimitri muttered sarcastically, picking _Oliver Twist_ up again and flipping pages without looking at them. "Why wouldn't I be all right?"

"He shouldn't have done that to you," Olga said quietly. "I meant what I said to Mama earlier. I love my brother very, very much, but what he did was wrong and cowardly." Her eyes drifted to her fingers. "I think I am a little ashamed of him."

"He didn't do anything to _me_ ," Dimitri told her. "I'm not the one lying in bed hemorrhaging."

Olga opened her mouth to reply, then reached out and put her fingertips on the book he still held.

Their eyes met, and in that moment Dimitri felt sorrier for her than for himself. Olga, twenty-four years old, unmarried, doomed to be a prisoner with her disgraced family and suicidal brother.

This, when she could – _should_ , even – have married a crown prince. She didn't deserve this. None of them did.

But where he felt sorry for Alexei because he was ill, Maria because she was so kind and innocent, Anastasia for such obvious yet unexplainable reasons, and Tatiana because she was so tragically beautiful and cold – so like the former Tsarina, yet never given the chance to make her own choices, where she might have decided differently than her mother – Olga was the one he felt sorry for on an intellectual level. Some servants Dimitri used to know had commented she was as much like Nicholas as Tatiana was like Alexandra save for the fact that she had a working temper whereas her papa was known for his meek passivity. He could see that now. Especially looking back on the family as a whole during his ten years with them.

Anastasia and Maria were young enough that they might recover from this as the bulk of their lives went on. As for Tatiana, she seemed comfortable in isolation, just like Alexandra. If it weren't for the guards acting up sometimes, and the unfair restrictions, she very probably would have been perfectly happy with things just the way they were. Only Olga was getting to the point where her life was passing her by in captivity. If this rubbish with the government went on for another, say, five years, she'd already be nearing thirty by the time it was all sorted. She'd have a decade left before the onset on middle-age. Most of her youth would be lost.

Thoughtlessly, as if Olga was as much his sister as Alexei's, Dimitri felt his hand move across the book and place itself over hers.

It was so automatic it surprised even him.

The gesture was so unexpectedly familiar that Olga had to choke back tears. That this servant, generally unaffectionate in nature, could care about her and her family so much, that he could be their trusted friend, meant the world to her. She did love him like a brother. Indeed, she had for a long, long time. It had simply not been seemly to _say_ so. Even now, she did not say it. Revolution or no revolution, she was still the daughter of the Tsar. But she smiled and continued to stare into his eyes for just a couple moments longer, letting hers say would her lips couldn't.

Neither of them noticed the pair of blue eyes looking at them from the open space left by _Oliver Twist_ 's removal.

Anastasia stood on the other side of the shelf, clutching Pooka to her chest. She was fighting back tears, too, but for very different reasons than her eldest sister.

For she thought she understood, at last, why Dimitri had rejected her in the ballroom.

* * *

The world Alexei opened his eyes to was dark and cool.

The first thing he registered was that he had apparently not died. He'd imagined heaven would be white, not dim, striped with lengthy shadows cast from the dozens of icons in his alcove. No, he was almost certainly in his bedroom, with all the curtains drawn so the sunlight wouldn't wake him prematurely.

The second was the sting of guilt.

What everybody must be going through, after what he'd done to himself.

If he'd died, they would grieve, but then they'd have been free of him. At least, that was the way Alexei saw it.

Now, they were more securely chained to their bleeding Baby than ever before. He'd made things worse for them, not better.

A tall figure, blurred by the moisture in his eyes (welling tears were the fate of most of the Romanov siblings that day, evidently), placed a cool cloth on his forehead.

At first he thought it was his mama, but the touch was too willowy, made by a lighter hand.

"Ta..." he croaked. "Tatya?"

"How are you feeling?" Tatiana asked.

"All right," he lied. So many joints pained him right then he didn't even bother to count. "Where is everybody?"

"Papa, Maria, and Mama are outside, walking with some of the guards," she told him. "Mama had to be wrenched away from your side, but Papa insisted she needed fresh air. I offered to sit with you until she returned; I think that made her feel better about it."

"Ana?"

"I'm not sure where she is," admitted Tatiana with a forced nonchalant shrug. "She was...upset...by your injuries and ran off. I thought she would have composed herself by now, but the last anyone's seen her today was outside our library.

"That was hours ago. A large number of the guards are on alert for her, horrified at the idea of her escaping on their watch." She rolled her eyes and turned the cool cloth over. " _Idiokas_ , the lot of them."

Alexei considered sitting up, but the pain was too great. "Will they still move us now?"

Tatiana's eyes narrowed and her lips pursed together so tightly they turned white. "Yes, of course. I hope you didn't throw yourself down the stairs to keep us here..."

He shook his head.

"There will be a delay until you're better, though."

"That could take weeks," Alexei noted. Had he unwittingly given his family several extra weeks at home in their beautiful Catherine Palace before they were forced to leave it forever?

"They are giving us only two," Tatiana sighed.

Alexei shuddered.

"And Papa will have to carry you himself. I do hope they send a car for us. It would be just dreadful for Papa to have to carry you all the way there on foot." Tatiana turned away from her brother so he couldn't see the sly smile forming on her face. She knew very well what she was doing. What game she was playing at to ensure Alexei would not pull another stunt like this next time he felt like a burden to them.

The ex-tsarevich's forehead wrinkled. "It's not a big deal. They'll probably send a car. And, even if they don't, Dimitri can help carry me."

"Oh, that's right, you don't know." Tatiana sighed.

"Know what?"

"It will wait until you recover." Still turned away from him, she walked to the window. "Now that you're awake, would you like a bit of sunlight?"

"Tell me!" Alexei insisted, his eyes widening.

"Dimitri was sacked," she said coolly, pulling back the drapes. " _Naturally_ , he was sacked. After what happened, Mama couldn't conceive of keeping him on, however loyal he's been, so the guards will escort him away from the palace soon. Perhaps they have already done so."

"No!" This time, Alexei managed to make himself sit, if not straight up, than higher up, using the plumpest pillow to support his aching lower back.

"Well, he wasn't looking after you, and you had a horrible accident. His negligence is nothing short of unspeakable."

"It wasn't like that at all," he cried. "Really, it wasn't! I did it on _purpose_. I'm so, so sorry! I won't ever do that again... There was a letter... I didn't mean... Oh, _please_ tell Mama not to sack him! He hasn't really left yet, has he? Don't I get to say goodbye?"

"If you really and truly promise," Tatiana said, swallowing hard to keep her expression grim as she turned to face him again, "I'll see what can be done." She arched an eyebrow. "But you must _swear_ , Alyosha."

"I swear," Alexei promised immediately.

"Then I think everything will be all right now," Tatiana said reassuringly. "You just need to get well again and we'll take it from there."

"One more thing, Tatya?"

"Yes, Sunbeam?"

"Where... Where is Bartok?"

"Papa had him put in his cage and moved to another room. His frantic flying around frightened Mama, because of who he used..." Tatiana swallowed, unable to finish that sentence. After seeing that hideous political cartoon, she found herself choking with rage every time Rasputin's name came up.

Alexei winced. He himself never used the cage, avoiding putting his batty friend in there. He'd have to ask Papa or Ana to let him out. He wanted to ask Tatiana _now_ , but was too worried she'd take Mama's part and say no.

* * *

The absurdly short fortnight given for Alexei's recovery before the Romanovs were to be moved to Tobolsk was filled with tension.

Anastasia was finally found and the guards – at least those with a sense of humor – had a good laugh, once they realized she was still on palace grounds and had been under their noses the entire time.

But, once she was reunited with her family, it was clear something was not right. She wasn't on speaking terms with Olga, much to her eldest sister's bafflement. And she wouldn't even _look_ at Dimitri. It was only toward Maria, Alexei, Tatiana, her dog, and her parents that Anastasia acted no differently than usual.

Standing beside the samovar on the day they were to leave, Anastasia felt torn as Dimitri approached her wheeling Alexei's chair. If it had just been Alexei, she would have smiled. If it had been Dimitri alone, she'd have ignored him. She settled on just avoiding Dimitri's gaze, acting like he wasn't there.

Alexei rose shakily from his wheelchair and approached the samovar. It was an extravagant one, all in silver and the finest enamel, topped with a carved swan and decorated with dancing bears.

"I'm taking this with us," he said, this small fifteen-year-old boy looking so utterly serious about carrying off this large, ornate thing that Anastasia would have laughed if she'd been in a different kind of mood.

"What do you think we're going to do in Tobolsk with something that fancy, Baby?" Tatiana appeared with Lili and put her arm around her brother, helping him bring the samovar along all the same. "Dimitri, please bring the wheelchair back around in a few minutes. Botkin says it's good for him to stretch his legs a bit, but you know how easily he tires out."

Dimitri could hear Alexei grumbling, "We're still going to need hot water in _Tobolsk_ , Tatya," and Lili tittering, as they disappeared into the next room.

It was then that Anastasia realized their departure had left her alone with Dimitri. Exactly the _last_ thing she wanted right then.

He cleared his throat.

She forced an awkward cough, then turned to face the double glass doors that led into the ballroom.

"There's not much time," Dimitri warned her. "They'll be waiting for you."

"Then go tell everyone I'll be there in a minute," Anastasia said tersely, sticking her head through the doors. "I just want to see it one more time."

"I-"

"We're not coming back here, Dimitri."

"I know."

"Not ever."

"I _said_ I know."

"I just don't want to _forget_ okay?" she snapped. "Leave me alone." Wasn't it enough that he'd rejected her for her own sister? Now he couldn't even let her soak in the memories of happier times – when there were balls and Papa didn't look so grave all the time – in peace before she had to leave it behind forever?

"Are you mad at me?" Dimitri asked after a long pause.

"Whatever gave you that impression?" Anastasia muttered, taking a step into the ballroom, hoping he wouldn't follow.

He did. "Maybe the fact that you haven't spoken to me in over two weeks?"

Anastasia whirled on him, not realizing how close he was standing to her, their noses almost colliding before Dimitri jumped back. "You should have just _told_ me, _okay_?"

"Told you what?"

She snorted. "If this is about me telling Mama or Papa, relax, I'm not going to tattle on the both of you. It's none of my business." Folding her arms across her chest, she added, "Which, I might add, you've made perfectly clear."

"The both of _who_?" Dimitri was genuinely lost.

"Oh, my _God_!" Anastasia huffed. "I know about you and Olga."

"Me and...Olga...?" Now he was _really_ confused. "Your _sister_?"

"Exactly how many Olgas do you know, Dimitri?"

"It's a pretty common name," he pointed out.

"God, I can't even _talk_ to you," Anastasia fumed. "You're _impossible_!"

" _I'm_ impossible?" Princess or not, _she_ was hardly one to talk.

"For the record, I understand why you like her," she blurted. "She's older, smarter... Taller..." Not by much, though, and certainly not as tall as Tatiana, but – being realistic here – there was no way in blazes Dimitri had the slightest chance with _Tatya_... "But you should have said something. The last time we were in this ballroom together, before you walked out on me, I not only thought you..." Her face was going a little red. "I actually... _Ughhh_!" Stamping her foot she started to walk away from him, but he grabbed onto her wrist, pulling her back.

"Stop being crazy for a second," he said.

" _I'm_ crazy?" she exclaimed, narrowing her eyes like she couldn't believe he had the gall to say that. Rolling her eyes, she turned to leave. "Look, we should go. They're waiting for me, like you said."

Thoughtlessly, he reached out a hand to stop her, grabbing her wrist again. "Wait, hold on a minute, hold on."

"Why?" she demanded. "What could you _possibly_ have left to say to me?"

Without another word, he pulled her into his arms, holding her much closer than when they had danced together, stunning Anastasia into silence.


	7. Journey to Tobolsk: Part One

_Journey To Tobolsk: part 1_

He still knew, of course, that she was a princess (Nicholas and his abdication notwithstanding). He still knew it was wrong, that he shouldn't be doing this. But, just as he had stunned her into silence by this simple action of drawing her into his arms, holding onto her in such an overly familiar way without asking or even giving the slightest indication he meant to do it, her accusation that he was in love with her eldest sister had shocked _him_ just as deeply.

How could she possibly think, even for a minute, he was in love with Olga Romanov? What on _earth_ gave her that impression? She really _was_ crazy!

Wasn't it obvious that, in another life where there was no royalty, if he was going to admit he had feelings of more than friendship for any of the Romanov girls, it would have been _her_? Anastasia. The girl who'd gotten him into trouble and yet brought him so much joy as a child. The girl who'd grown, though she didn't seem to know it, into quite a lovely young woman in her own right.

Dimitri _was_ fond of her sisters, sure, but his love for them was like his love for Alexei. It was pure, harmless, brotherly. He didn't secretly want to touch them.

Maybe that was it. Maybe, in reining himself in with Anastasia, always worried he'd go too far, he'd been _too_ distant.

But that was a _good_ thing, wasn't it? That was what needed to be done... _Right_?

Yet, paradoxically, he wanted her to know the truth. He couldn't have her thinking he was snubbing her, not for propriety's sake, but because he wanted someone else just as high above the salt.

Dimitri had never really been good at expressing his feelings. This left him with few options, and he took one he knew he was going to regret but at the time saw no way around.

Anastasia still in his arms, he tilted his head, leaned in, and pressed his lips firmly against hers.

Her eyes widened, then closed. She started to respond naturally. Even though she'd never been kissed like that before, the gesture was not difficult to return. Especially since this was something she'd wanted since the _last_ time they'd been alone in the ballroom together. Now it would be a beautiful memory. One last good thing to happen to her in this magical room.

The best yet, in fact.

However, she'd barely started to kiss him back when he pulled away, looking guilty. Apparently the moment was far too sweet to last.

"What's wrong?" she whispered, lips still tingling.

Dimitri let go of her and shook his head. "We should go."

She nodded mutely. What else could she expect him to say? She knew him too well to expect him to profess undying love for her. Or even so much as explain himself.

At least, if nothing more, Anastasia now had reassurance that he wasn't in love with somebody else.

* * *

"Papa, when can we go?" whispered Maria tiredly. "Aren't they ready yet? Is there something wrong? They've kept us waiting for _hours_ now."

"There's some delay, Mashka my dear," sighed Nicholas, stroking his beard anxiously. "I'm sure it will be sorted soon."

"I'm scared," she added, still whispering.

Olga, giving up her seat on the small wooden bench she'd been sharing with Alexei (and, by default, Dimitri, whose shoulder Alexei was dozing against), urged Maria to take it. "It will be all right," she told her second youngest sister softly as they switched places. "Just try not to bother Papa so much. He's worried, too. It's wearing him to a shadow – the guards arguing about what time we're meant to leave, with no more grace than if they were moving a few dogs..."

Asleep next to the ex-tsarevich's suitcase, Pooka snorted and rolled over.

Anastasia was sitting on her own suitcase. She chuckled at Pooka's timing, her eyes drifting from her dog to Dimitri for a moment. He smiled awkwardly back at her and gestured down at Alexei's slumbering form, half-shrugging with his free shoulder.

Blushing, she looked away.

Any mushy thoughts on her mind were interrupted by two commanding officers of the guard bursting into the dead quiet room.

One was scowling while the other looked resigned.

The resigned one stood with his hands behind his back as he spoke. "Romanovs, you are to be transported in thirty minutes. I hope you have packed everything you will need, because your rooms are already sealed and photographed. You are not permitted to return to them."

As if to reassure herself, Anastasia tapped the bulge in her coat pocket that was her music box.

She knew she wouldn't have left it, her grandmother's gift having been the _first_ thing she'd made sure was ready to take along to Tobolsk, but there was something so frightening about the finality of it all and the grim look on the officer's drained face that left her feeling as if she had forgotten something important and beloved. Something she would not remember until it was too late. But, as long as she had her family, the small remainder of loyal servants (like Lili, Dimitri, and Botkin), her dog, and her music box, losing anything else – no matter how precious – would be bearable. They were all together; that was what truly mattered.

"We have already been waiting here for nearly _five_ hours," Tatiana said boldly, glancing down at her pale-faced Mama with pity and then darting her eyes back to the officer coldly. "And yet we were told not to be a minute late."

"Tatiana–" Olga tried.

But her sister was not to be stopped. "One of your men scolded my youngest sister." Here she turned and nodded at Anastasia. "Scolded her as if _we_ couldn't manage it – she is _our_ sister after all, not _his_ , I'd like to point out – for lingering in the ballroom with my brother's companion when she ought to have been here waiting."

Anastasia felt her face growing hot. Tatiana had no idea of what they'd – she and Dimitri – been doing in that ballroom, only that they'd been there too long for the guard's tastes. She wondered if maybe Olga knew – or _guessed –_ though. She had to of suspected _something_ was up when Anastasia began talking to her and looking at Dimitri again.

"Need I remind you," the scowling officer cut in, "that you are all still under arrest? _We_ do not answer to _you_. You are foolish to confuse us with your former servants and cossacks. Those days are over. _Long_ over. And I will not have you speak out at us like that again. Things could become very unpleasant for you if you did. _Understand_?"

"Is that a threat?" Nicholas growled, eyes flaming with sudden uncharacteristic anger. "Are you threatening my daughter?"

The resigned officer stepped between the scowling one and Nicholas. "Please be calm and patient, Comrade Romanov. We are sorry for any inconvenience, but this has not been an easy trip for _us_ to arrange either. My men are all as tired as your family is."

"Come here, my darling," said Alexandra, motioning with her hand for Tatiana come crouch beside her. She would not dignify either of the guards with the slightest glance of acknowledgment, focusing only on her favorite daughter.

"One half hour!" boomed the scowling guard, storming away.

Maria shuddered at the sound of his retreating feet. Pooka growled in his sleep.

"Horrible man," muttered Alexandra, reaching for Tatiana's hand and squeezing gently.

The resigned guard sighed. In another time, he might have bowed respectfully, as if in apology, but he only blinked at them pityingly and left the same way as the other guard had.

* * *

A long wait followed by an insult from a disgruntled officer was not the worst the Romanovs would have to endure while beginning their journey to Tobolsk. Far worse came in the form of Lili being grabbed by two guards and yanked roughly back as she was trying to board the train.

In front of her, Maria had slipped, and she'd just helped the girl straighten herself out and go join her sisters, preparing to follow, when she felt strong hands grasp her by the shoulders and waist. She was so frightened her mouth opened wide, as if to scream, but no sound could come out.

" _Lili_!" cried Maria, whirling around. "Anastasia, get Mama; they're not letting Lili come with us! They're taking her somewhere!"

Anastasia ran down the length of the car and returned with a furious-faced Alexandra. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Your former lady-in-waiting is being arrested," the guards told her gruffly. "We advise you not to resist, or there will be trouble."

"You cannot simply take away a member of my family and threaten me into silence as you drag them off to heaven only knows where!" exclaimed the ex-tsarina, taking a step off the train. "On what charges do you take her from us?"

"That is no concern of yours."

"But," said Maria, shakily, "we're all prisoners, aren't we? Isn't she still under arrest if she's with us? Can't we have her along all the same? What harm could it do?"

"We have our orders, miss." The guard who spoke these words had a slightly gentler tone with Maria. "We are to send you lot off, and take the lady-in-waiting in hand."

"But you can't take her!" shouted Alexandra desperately, wringing her hands together until her knuckles turned white. "You _can't_!"

"Control yourself, _Madam_!" The guard callously raised a bayonet and bared his teeth just the slightest bit.

Anastasia couldn't help but think she'd never heard anyone say 'Madam' like that – as though it were the harshest of insults – before.

Tatiana and Olga appeared behind their mother, stretching out their hands helplessly in Lili's direction. Tears streamed freely down Olga's cheeks. _Don't leave us, don't leave us, Lili..._ Their eyes were burning with the words they were dying to shout out but couldn't.

Besides, even if they _could_ , what difference would it make? Lili was in no control over her own fate now. It might have _felt_ like her deserting them, but it wasn't her fault. If given a choice, if these horrible guards weren't taking her away (maybe forever!), she'd have followed them, not only to Tobolsk, but to the very ends of the earth.

"Goodbye, my dearest ones!" wept Lili over her shoulder, calling louder the further they pulled her away. "Be strong, my dears! Be strong! I love you! I will come to you, when they let me go. I _promise_! Wherever you are, my dear family, I will come!"

"Good...bye..." breathed Maria pitifully, crying so hard now she had brought on herself a bad case of the shakes and hiccups.

Tatiana's arm slipped around Maria. "You heard her, Mashka," she whispered. "You heard her. She's coming after us. Lili is simply coming along later. That's what we have to think, to be brave for Mama until Lili's with us again."

For a terrible moment, Anastasia wondered if they would make up some reason to arrest Dimitri 'on orders' too. True, he had only been a kitchen boy, whereas Lili had a title – however minimal – before the revolution.

All the same, a companion to a tsarevich was not completely different from a Tsarina's lady-in-waiting...

If they took _him_ , on top of taking Lili, Anastasia would have felt an anger that rivaled any she'd ever felt in her life. Just the thought of it made her blood boil. It wasn't only her own feelings for Dimitri she was thinking of; it was how alone her little brother would be without him. Dimitri had been with Alexei too long to be taken from him when he was most vulnerable.

But, no, here was Dimitri now, climbing aboard, helping carry Botkin's medicine bag and two of the smaller suitcases that had not already been loaded.

Anastasia held her breath, watching for the guards' reaction. They were not grasping him as they'd grasped Lili; they were letting him come. She let the breath out.

"I saw what happened," Dimitri told her as they all walked to their cars, Maria still sniffling despite trying to do as Tatiana said and be brave for their Mama. "I'm so sorry."

"How can they _do_ this to us?" snapped Anastasia. "Lili's never hurt anyone in her life! It's just spite, that's all it is."

Dimitri nodded glumly. He wanted to say something – even if it was just a wisecrack – but nothing came to him. Lili being taken like this was just too unfair, even in his eyes. He'd never realized how much he liked Lili until now, even if she'd never shown _him_ any particular fondness.

She'd always just sort of _been there_...

Now he saw how much that meant to all the grand duchesses and their mother. Now he saw the sheer amount of selfless love Lili had always had for the Romanov family.

She just might have loved them even more than _he_ did.

And that was saying an awful lot.

* * *

"I can't believe they took Lili," Alexei whispered to Bartok, who was lying on his pillow. "Maybe they're going to separate the rest of us, too, when we get to Tobolsk. Or sooner." He clenched his jaw, fighting back both childish tears and a yawn. When he released it again, his eyes streamed silent rivers. "I don't want to be separated from Ana, Bartok." He wanted to stay with his whole family – especially his favorite sister – forever. "I don't want them to take me away because I'm sick."

"Master..."

Alexei snuggled deeper into the pillow, scooting closer to Bartok so that his nose was almost touching the little white bat. "They could, you know. If they can take Lili away for no reason, they could take me away because of my haemophilia."

"With all due respect, Master," said Bartok, tilting his head. "You almost took _yourself_ away."

"At least that felt like a choice," Alexei said softly. A _bad_ one, yes, one he knew he must never repeat, certainly, but a choice all the same. "I feel like everything's being taken. I'm scared to sleep, almost. Afraid I'll wake up and find the guards moved me..."

"Don't be scared," Bartok told him, sitting up on the pillow. "You've got old Bartok watching out for you." One of his large white ears did a half turn, listening. "And I tell you what, there's nothing coming to get you right now. Perfectly okay to sleep."

"The guards..."

"Don't you worry none about the guards." Bartok rose to his feet now, bouncing on the pillow dramatically. "They come to take you away from the others, and I'll give them a ha, then a hi-ya!" He kicked up one foot and flapped his wings. "And I'll kick them, Master."

Alexei smiled sadly. "I wish I could pretend this was just a family vacation, off someplace nice."

"You can." Bartok sighed and put his head back down next to his master's nose. "You can sleep now and dream of Livadia."

"Maybe we'll meet there, on the dreamland road to the Crimea," Alexei murmured, his eyes half-closed now. "You, me, Dimitri, and Ana. And our dream-souls can play together all night while the train takes our bodies to Tobolsk."

* * *

"What are you doing?" Dimitri slid open the door to the train compartment Anastasia was supposed to be asleep in.

Instead of sleeping, she was kneeling forward on her seat to peek out the window at the full moon spreading its pale-colored glow over the Russian snow-capped countryside.

She glanced back at him. "Nothing. Be quiet."

"The guards said we aren't supposed to look out the windows," Dimitri whisper-hissed urgently. "We're supposed to be a red cross train."

"And let me guess," Anastasia said, raising an eyebrow. "You haven't been looking out _your_ window when you think no one's watching."

"It's different for me," he reminded her. "No one in Russia knows _my_ face from a postage stamp."

"There's nobody _to recognize_ me out there." Anastasia gestured with her chin. "It's almost four in the morning and we're in the middle of nowhere."

"The guards will still get angry," he said, swallowing hard. "If they wake up and see what you've been up to."

She sighed and sat back, slumping down into the seat. "I miss the palace already."

"It was a place we once lived." Dimitri cleared his throat, trying to sound tough, like nothing so trivial as being taken out of some mere _building_ could hurt him. "End of story."

Anastasia blinked back tears and clenched her jaw. If he was going to be like _that_ , she was not about to show weakness in front of him.

"Where's Maria?" He changed the subject. After all, it _was_ strange to see Anastasia sleeping alone. She and Maria had shared everything – from rooms to bedtimes – her whole life.

"Sleeping with Mama and Papa," Anastasia explained. "Mostly for Mama's sake. She's distraught without Lili, and Papa just sits up and smokes." She shuddered a little at the memory of the darkening rings under her papa's eyes from lack of sleep. "Tatiana offered, but she's too tall for the cot in their compartment."

Avoiding her eyes, Dimitri pushed back his cuticles with his thumbnail.

"Why are you here?" she suddenly asked.

He shrugged.

"You know Maria's a heavy sleeper," she realized slowly, smiling. "And that I'm not."

" _I'm_ a heavy sleeper," he said, shrugging again.

"But you're not sleeping."

"Look, my coming to see you has nothing to do with what happened in the ballroom."

Her smile waned a little. "Oh?"

"Actually, if you were still up...I..."

"Yes?" She raised both eyebrows expectantly.

Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. "I wanted to apologize."

" _Apologize_?"

"If I ever pull you in like that again, I want you to promise me you'll slap me or push me away."

She frowned. "Why?"

"Because it's not proper." Speaking of not proper, he realized this was the first time he'd ever been alone with her dressed in pajamas since she was _ten_.

"What's 'not proper' is how infuriating you are half the time," Anastasia snorted. "We _barely_ kissed."

He rolled his eyes. "And since when are you an expert on kissing?"

Anastasia folded her arms across her chest and glowered.

"Look, I'm trying to _help_ ," he sighed. "We're never going to be together, and you seem to have a... _crush_...shall we say? On me... I just-"

" _I_ have a _crush_ on _you_?" Anastasia spluttered, jumping up to her feet. How _dare_ he! How dare he just calmly reduce whatever was happening between them, feelings she knew were – on _her_ end, anyway – real enough, to a silly schoolgirl crush? Why did she even _like_ Dimitri? He was so _stupid_! "Please just remove yourself from my sight."

In a tone somewhere between mocking and honestly compliant, he murmured, "Your highness," managed a half-bow, and left her standing there alone in the utter silence that always engulfs the world at four in the morning.

Gritting her teeth, she twisted her right index finger in the chain of her _Together In Paris_ necklace. She kept on twisting, looping in tighter and tighter, until she felt the chain impressing itself into her skin.

It was a more than welcome distraction. For, being left behind in the empty compartment was worse, somehow, than leaving the sealed up palace had been.

How on _earth_ had Dimitri managed to reject her once, then un-reject her, only to come in to her like this and reject her all over again? Anastasia was growing more than a little tired of this endless cycle of nonsense.

If he ever did try to kiss her again, maybe she really _would_ slap him.

* * *

After traveling several days by train, the Romanovs and the servants that had not been taken from them (as poor Lili had) were escorted – in hard wooden carts – by the most heavily armed of guards to a chilly port, waiting for the arrival of a boat called the _Rus_.

"Wherever is your fur hat, Baby?" Alexandra's eyes darted to Alexei's momentarily bare head in panic. "You'll freeze without it." _Especially_ , she thought, with his short hair, which was taking so much longer to grow back than his sisters'...

With almost comically perfect timing, Maria's teeth began to chatter and she huddled closer to Anastasia and Olga.

"Dimitri, child," said Nicholas kindly. "I think Alyosha has forgotten his hat back in the cart. Could you please run and fetch it for us before the guards remove it?"

The fact that he took off for the hat immediately – so like a servant obeying his Tsar – ruffled the feathers of the closest guards, one of whom stuck out his foot to trip him.

Dimitri landed face-first in a slush pit of snow and mud.

Nicholas' expression was full of sympathy. He had not expected the poor fellow to come to grief with such a simple request. Having been a tsar for so long, albeit not a particularly commanding one, he wasn't used to his orders being obeyed resulting in bad consequences for those who did so. When his beloved Sunny started fretting about Alexei's missing hat, Nicholas had to admit, he had not thought his request through. Better it would have been – in the most humblest of tones – to perhaps ask one of the guards to do it. They would have grumbled and mocked, but they wouldn't have instantly decided Dimitri was a worthy target.

It worried Nicholas to think that – if they took to venting more of their feelings toward the old monarchy on his son's companion – this could escalate into a dangerous situation for the unfortunate young man. Lili, poor soul, was almost safer in whatever miserable prison they had hauled her off to.

Although Dimitri chafed bitterly inside, wanting nothing more than to pull one of the guards down into the slush beside him, he settled on shooting them a stony expression that clearly said _I won't forget this_ , and continuing on his way to get the hat.

He did make it to the cart in time, but only just. And this resulted in more boorish laughter from the guards.

Maria was confused and shocked. "Tatiana, I don't understand why they're being this way. Some of these men – these very _same_ men – were not so awful to us back at the palace." Yes, the commanding officers were harsh – they'd been cruel about arranging their travel, and she'd witnessed that plain as day – but the fellows tripping Dimitri were... Well, they were common soldiers. Honest, overall _good_ soldiers just trying to do their job... Or so she'd believed. Until now.

"Don't be silly, Mashka. Certainly you knew they didn't like Papa?" Tatiana replied, her tone full of exasperation.

"Even little Boris with the bad leg?" Maria asked, pointing to a soldier she had conversed with several times during their house arrest. "He's always been nice to me; his jokes–"

"For _God's sake_ , Mashka!" interjected Olga, not out of true anger but in surprise at the degree of her sister's naivity. "Who do you think your 'dear little Boris' blames for his bad leg?"

"Not... _Papa_...?" she faltered.

"Yes, Papa," Olga told her.

"And you must have noticed Boris was pointing and smiling when Dimitri was tripped," Tatiana added.

Maria _had_ noticed, but had been unable to absorb this information. Her heart didn't want to believe it. She didn't love Boris, not like she loved her family, but she _was_ fond of him. She was fond of many of their guards. That was why she'd asked if they were were all coming with them to Tobolsk, and had been disappointed when her papa said no.

"Look," Anastasia jumped in, her tone bitter, "just because somebody's handsome in a uniform isn't a reason to trust them. Even people you think you know can let you down." For some reason – perhaps because Maria had begun to cry – nobody noticed Anastasia's eyes dart over to Dimitri at that last bit.

Dimitri felt like someone was reaching into his chest and squeezing the breath and blood out of his lungs and heart. He was so damned angry at those guards, yet just one betrayed look from Anastasia that no one else saw was enough to deflate his rage.

Sucking his teeth, he handed Alexei's hat to Nicholas, who clapped it over his son's head in a lopsided fashion.

One of Alexei's ears peeked out and Alexandra reached over and covered it, straightening the hat. She did her best not to let her hand make contact with the little white bat on his shoulder.

Pulling away from his tight-lipped mother, Alexei heard a fog-horn sound.

"Well," he said, nuzzling his cheek against Bartok, "the boat's here."


	8. Journey to Tobolsk: Part Two

_Journey To Tobolsk: part 2_

"I like this part of the trip," Maria decided, curling her fingers around the ship's railing and leaning over it to get the salty breeze in her face. "It reminds me of being on the Standart. Just like a holiday."

Tatiana grasped the back of her second-youngest sister's dress. "For mercy's sake, Mashka, back up! You'll fall in, sink to the bottom and drown, and Mama will faint from terror."

Dimitri rolled his eyes. For someone with such strong lack of imagination, Tatiana sure could invent some wild scenarios on occasion.

"That's right," said Anastasia, half-smirking as she came over to lean her own elbows on the rail. "And fall right in after you."

"Anastasia Nicholavna!" scolded Tatiana. "Don't joke about that, it's serious. She could fall, and Mama–"

"Is looking over the railing over _there_!" Anastasia pointed. "Give it a rest, Governess."

"What's _wrong_ with you?" Tatiana folded her arms across her chest. "You've been in a bad mood all morning."

"What's wrong with _me_?" she cried. "What's wrong with all of _you_? Why do you expect me to be all right when you aren't? Why do _I_ always have to be the cheerful one?" She pulled away from the railing. "Last time I checked, I'm not a clown for hire!"

"Could have fooled me," muttered Tatiana.

Maria reached over and grabbed Anastasia's wrist, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Is it that time of month?"

Scowling, she wretched her hand away. "No! _God_!"

It was Olga who was most understanding. Maybe she suspected what the others didn't – about Anastasia's feelings for Dimitri being the root cause of this outburst more than true resentment over being the family clown. "Leave her alone, Tatya. Can't you see she hasn't slept? There are dark circles under her eyes."

"Lord have mercy on our souls," murmured Alexandra, leaving her place and coming over to them as she pointed at something on the horizon. "Do you know what we are passing?"

"No, Mama," said Maria.

Tatiana noticed something else. "Mama, you're shaking!"

"It's Rasputin's village," Alexandra explained quietly.

Maria's chin shook like she was going to start crying again. Anastasia clenched her jaw. Tatiana took a step back, suddenly appearing quite seasick. Beside her, Olga crossed herself and murmured a prayer.

Alexandra was appalled into a near white-rage of indignation when Dimitri tried to see how close to it he could spit, but Alexei smiled, which softened her fury. Anastasia might have smiled too, or even giggled, if she hadn't been mad at him. Indeed, if things were different, she would have spat at Rasputin's puny village too.

In a way, this was all his fault. That vile man! Anastasia wasn't superstitious – not particularly, not like her Mama and Tatiana were – but sometimes she still believed he really had cursed them the night he was killed.

Maybe not to death, as he'd wished, but they _were_ suffering from the rot his bad influence had left on the Russian public ten years later.

Being a prisoner was like living death. Not so much to the four of them, perhaps, grand duchesses who'd never had much freedom to begin with, but the effects on Papa and Mama? And poor Alexei who should have been the next tsar? Their faces full of worry and white as corpses? Yes, it was a curse as bad as death.

Or so Anastasia thought at the time.

* * *

It was a cold, foggy morning hour when the Rus finally docked in the port at Tobolsk. Anastasia clutched Pooka close to her chest; Alexandra kept rubbing at her arms, even under the thick coat and fur stole she wore. Maria had developed a cough, bringing back to all the recent memory of her lying in bed sick with measles.

They were hustled off the boat less like former royalty and more like a small stream of cattle. Anastasia felt something prod her back when she stopped for a moment, to take in the sight of the still, gray water and the pitching rocky land. She turned to glare, still clutching Pooka, but couldn't tell which guard – if indeed it _was_ a guard and not, perhaps, one of her groggy family members, or even Dimitri – had done it.

The Governor's house they were to stay in was in a filthy state when they arrived. Alexandra looked liable to faint from the ugly shock of the dirty rooms and torn wallpaper alone.

The dining room's in shambles," whispered Olga to a tense-looking Tatiana who was trying and – at the moment – not truly succeeding in comforting their mother.

"Dimitri, lad." The Tsar's voice was soft, almost matching the way he might have addressed his daughters, if not Alexei, in so tense a situation, but there still remained that tone of command all servants knew. "Check the pantry. Perhaps you might fix Alexei something to eat while we sort this mess out."

This succeeded in cheering Alexandra somewhat. "I believe, husband, that might do Sunbeam a world of good – he's awfully pale."

"I'm all right," Alexei tried, heeded only by Bartok, whose ears lifted.

Vanishing down the hall, Dimitri passed a sink filled with crud on the way to the pantry. He had to block his nose because of the stench rising from the pipes. Although he lowered his hand when he reached the wooden doors, he almost immediately wished he hadn't.

Something dead was hanging there; some unidentifiable dead animal. Blood didn't drip from the animal so much as it was caked – more brown than red – onto its mangled fur. This house had supposedly been used as soldier barracks recently, but Dimitri wasn't sure if they had left this as a sign of disrespect for what a rich house like this stood for or had actually meant to eat it and then, rather stupidly, let it rot.

There came a gagging noise from behind him. He whirled, half-expecting Alexei, though he was surprised the Tsarina hadn't prevented him from following. He would have thought, in the shock, she'd have wanted to keep her son as close as possible.

Instead, it was Anastasia. He hadn't known she was following. If anything, he'd figured her anger would have made her _avoid_ being alone with him. Strangely enough, she didn't even have Pooka. She must have put him down, or left him with one of her sisters.

Her gagging continued, and he realized she was about to vomit. Quickly, avoiding touching her with any more familiarity than a steadying palm on her elbow, he guided her away from the dead animal and, further on, the reeking sink.

She blinked at him, her tired blue eyes strangely hollow. "It's horrible. All of it."

He shook his head. "I wouldn't worry too much, your Highness. Once we get it cleaned out–"

"I wasn't talking about the house."

The voices of guards and the family – currently debating on where suitcases should be placed, most of which evidently were being taken out to storage in a nearby shed – carried here, yet Dimitri had the uncomfortable sensation that at this very moment he and Anastasia were hidden from their sights.

If she hadn't been royalty, if she'd just been another Russian girl or a servant like himself, he would have taken her in his arms. After what had happened between them before, and his rebuffing of it on the train, naturally this was not possible, even if he threw propriety away momentarily. Still, he would have thought even a civil conversation impossible between them for a few weeks yet.

And, all the same, she'd followed him.

All the same, even in one feeble sentence, she'd confided in him.

And he'd, being what he thought he had to be – the only thing he _could_ be – had used formality to dismiss her attempt to regain familiarity. It was like lighting a match to a bridge and watching it burn.

* * *

The room she and her sisters were going to stay in was finally cleaned out, their four cots arranged in neat rows. Maria had hung a few photographs (most of their albums were in storage, so there hadn't been a wide selection) to try and make it more personal; however, the overall effect remained bleak.

Something like shock had overcome Anastasia when she entered the house. All the fire she'd felt inside herself back on the _Rus_ was put out as if with a bucket of ice water. They were not the the sort of princesses who expected luxury at every turn, but seeing the state of the house suddenly reminded Anastasia how much they'd had. How much they really lost when they were forced to leave their palace. This was about more than silver samovars and late teatimes and her mother's endless fussing. More than lifestyles in themselves. They weren't just moving into a place previously used by less than careful persons, they were being held captive in a home that had belonged, albeit temporarily, to soldiers – soldiers who not only didn't love Papa anymore, but were as little like the soldiers in their storybooks as they were like the princesses of lore. Their comfort and health was an afterthought, if it was a thought at all.

Anastasia could imagine surviving a day or two in this ghastly house, with her frightened family, trying to cheer them up, but she couldn't imagine staying forever. Or even a few months.

At least her sisters didn't seem as negatively affected. Olga's shoulders relaxed when clean towels were produced and the room lost its sweaty odor; Tatiana seemed too busy looking after Mama to have her own thoughts, negative or otherwise. As for Maria, with her limited photographs up, and the sight of Alexei being carried – by their father – outside to the garden (which had fared at least a little better than the interior of the house), she'd already found reason to smile again.

 _She_ could live here forever, Anastasia thought, make the best of it. Be happy because she was surrounded by handsome guards, and the family was together and safe. Mashka could be contented.

Why Anastasia had remained alone in the room after the others had migrated to the garden was a mite complicated. It wasn't that she didn't want to go. It was more the thought that at least in here the guards weren't going to be staring at her every second. She'd hear them crashing in if they came; otherwise, they had give her a little privacy. Some of them had helped clean, but she couldn't help feeling angry with them. They were helping imprison Papa and, by extension, the rest of them, too. A few buckets of bleach and a couple kind words didn't change that.

She would have to join them soon, though, or questions about her whereabouts would be asked.

Sighing, she rose from her cot, pulling her arms through a fur-lined sable coat. It had once been her second-best. Now it was the warmest thing she owned, aside from a muff and hats in one of the suitcases that was doubtless in the shed. At any rate, it was the warmest possession she currently had access to. Her right hand tapped the closest pocket to make sure her music box was safely in there, her left stroking the chain around her neck. These, at least, no one had tried to take from her. Whether this had to do with the fact that she'd been taking care not to let the guards see them, moving the music box from pocket to pocket and keeping her collar tucked securely over the key, she wasn't entirely sure.

She wondered if it was colder outside, or warmer. It had been colder when they arrived, but after all the hours spent cleaning, she wasn't sure if the sun had come out from behind the clouds and warmed everything up. She hoped so. It was freezing in this house, nothing coming off the radiator under the window.

There was a light cough in the doorway. Not the cough of an officer, but that of a servant who'd not yet adjusted to the new order of things. Anastasia could think of only one person who insisted – even now – on being that obnoxiously formal with her.

_Dimitri._

She didn't even need to turn her head right away. "What do you want?"

"Alexei can't find his balalaika. He thinks you have it."

"Well, I don't." Now, she turned.

His eyes dropped.

Her nostrils flared. How long did he intend to be like this? Even if that kiss had never happened between them, they'd known each other since childhood. Surely he couldn't keep pretending she was a near-stranger so high above him? Oh, _of course_ he could! He was probably stubborn enough to pull it off on sheer will power. _Idiot_.

"I'll go and tell him, shall I?"

Anastasia walked to the window. She put her hands over the radiator. Still nothing. "Do whatever you want."

"I–"

"Yes?" Her hand moved the curtain aside to look out, so she wouldn't have to look at him again and see him avoid her gaze. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction, wouldn't make it easy for him, because it _shouldn't_ be.

"What are you looking at?"

"There's a little family down there, Dimitri," she told him distantly, unlatching the window and lifting it. "A mama, a boy maybe Alexei's age, and a younger girl – she's waving."

"Are you sure that's a good–" Dimitri began but was never to finish.

No sooner did Anastasia lift her hand to wave back at the younger girl than a guard on their side of the fence raised a pistol and fired right at the open window.

Dimitri charged forward and knocked Anastasia to the floor, saving her in the nick of time from getting a bullet between the eyes.

" _Christ_!" he swore, panting on his side, still sprawled on top of her.

Her chest heaved; the wind was knocked out of her; the bulge in her coat where her music box was dug into her hip, bruising it. But she couldn't move. All she could do was lie there, staring up.

Up at Dimitri, up at an obstructed view of the ceiling.

A clamor was inevitable.

Before Dimitri had managed to scramble to his feet and try to help Anastasia back up, five guards had already filed into the room, accompanied by a concerned Nicholas, demanding to know what was going on.

Anastasia cried, " _Papa_!" and ran to her father, burying her face in his label as if she were a child and not a young woman of eighteen.

"What's going on in here?" The superior officer scowled at Dimitri, as if he were the cause, not bothering to shift his gaze to the bullet-hole in the plaster on the other side of the room.

"One of your men," Dimitri fumed, "almost _shot_ her!" He pointed to Anastasia, who still clung to her father but was staring at him with a mix of bemusement and gratitude, as if she herself had not fully understood what just occurred.

A panting guard came in, driving the lot up to six total, crowded in that relatively small space.

It turned out to be the guard who'd fired the shot. "She was giving signals to somebody, sir."

Absolutely furious, Dimitri whirled on him. "She was waving to a little girl!"

"Comrade Nicholas." The officer's face was grave. "Were you not warned to prepare your family for what life would be like here? It seems you must remind them, if we are to avoid any further accidents of this nature."

The former tsar's face reddened, but he didn't reply, protectively clutching his daughter to his side.

"And you, young lady." He addressed Anastasia, his brow furrowed. "Mind you stay out of the way of bullets in the future."

She returned his furrow, mockingly, and scowled. "Don't worry, I intend to."


	9. Cousins

_Cousins_

Dimitri woke up one morning, perhaps a week or so after their initial and unpleasant arrival in Tobolsk, to the disconcerting sound of Nicholas the former Tsar shouting at the top of his voice.

Dimitri's first instinct was to think that he had overslept on a bad day – that they were somehow still at the Catherine Palace and he was already supposed to be up and attending to Alexei's needs and attentions. Of course it was his fault. Wasn't it _always_? Then he remembered where he was and his stomach soured, twisting with anxiety. Nicholas wasn't boisterous; he wouldn't be making a fuss if something weren't important, not here. The Tsarina, perhaps. Yes, Alexandra had her moments. But her _husband_? Surrounded as he was by guards, his children in potential peril at every moment, given what happened to Anastasia with that fired shot at the window?

_Never._

Alexei must be sick, or one of the princesses...something wrong with them... What if it was Anastasia? Supposing she'd been foolhardy enough to wave again... No, no, she wasn't stupid. Besides they hadn't seen another person from that window since the day of the 'accident'; the guards were keeping them well away.

Still, _something_ was wrong.

It was still dark out, no sun came through the shutters. Dimitri dressed quickly, not even bothering to splash water on his face, though habit forced him to run a comb through his hair because of the disgrace it would be if he appeared before the most important man in Russia with it mussed. Then he was up the narrow staircase, following Nicholas' booming voice.

He reached the living room, lit by dim lamps which cast symbols that looked sinister and even, inexplicably, _pagan_ on the far wall; and, of course, by a small fire, hardly more than a handful of embers.

The lower guards – of which there were three in the room – looked vaguely amused. Two officers, lounging about, looked bored, or else resigned. Nicholas was tearing up a letter and throwing it into the fireplace, just about putting the poor, helpless embers out of their misery.

"Your Ma–" Dimitri started, then stopped himself. He couldn't address Nicholas as royalty or the guards would have his hide. They already had it in for him quite enough with his making it any worse. "I mean, sir, I..."

" _Dimitri_." Nicholas turned to face him, scowling. "Have you any cousins?"

"None that I know of, sir." Nicholas, Dimitri thought, was well aware he – the lowly kitchen boy turned Alexei's companion – had no family to speak of. This was strange.

"Then you're lucky, child." His voice softened, but there was still rage in it. "Cousins..." He sighed heavily. "Cousins are the bane of the world. Never let anyone tell you differently."

With that, he stormed from the room, bumping Dimitri's arm in his haste to get out.

"No asylum from King George, then?" one guard whispered loudly to another.

An officer snorted. "As if there was ever a chance. Comrade Nicholas has his fantasies, that's for sure. Something stronger than reason gives him ties to hope."

Dimitri thought that might be true. But, if it was – if Nicholas really did delude himself with weak threads of hope – it was cruel of the guards to try and cut them.

* * *

"My ghost rook takes your queen," Alexei declared, staring at an empty spot on the checkered glass board.

" _Ghost rook_?" Dimitri, who had just entered the room in time to hear this most peculiar statement, whispered to Maria; who – as it happened – was standing a few feet away, watching the game between her eldest sister and little brother with her hands behind her back and a placid expression on her face.

"It seems," Maria answered back in a low tone under her breath, "that some of the chessmen have gone missing – so they are trying to play with 'ghost' pieces in their place. I'm meant to be referee and keep track, only I am hopeless at it. It _should_ be Tatya, but she's with Mama, of course."

"You most certainly did _not_ have a ghost piece there!" Olga insisted, raising her brow at Alexei across the table, as if insulting him and trying to encourage him to confess at the same time. "Little cheat."

"I do _so_ have a ghost piece! How dare you question my honor!"

"You put my queen back on that board at once."

"Well just for that, my ghost rook is going after your knight next, which puts your king in check."

"Ha! My ghost bishop is going to–"

Tatiana's head appeared in the room. "You sound like a pair of heathens in here. Mama can hear you – she says to please stop talking about ghosts or you'll spent an extra hour praying for your souls tonight."

"Ghost, ghost, ghost!" cried Alexei, flinging his arms up as if he'd suddenly lost his mind. He then kicked the table leg with a vengeance. " _Ghost_!"

Dimitri had to rush forward and help Olga steady the table to keep the board and the pieces they _did_ have from being sent crashing to the floor.

"Such a temper," tisked Tatiana, shaking her head. "Baby, I hope you will not behave like this when we go to stay with Cousin George in England."

Alexei's inexplicable venom had not yet run its course. "We're not going to England, Governess! No one will have us! Our relatives all hate us because of Mama being German, just like ugly Uncle Willy, and there isn't a thing we can do about it. And I don't _want_ to either, because I don't want to live with stupid King George and his stammering idiot son. Or the slow one, Johnny, who's always having fits. I hate them both, and I hate the queen and all the rest who think they're too good for us. So _there_!"

Tatiana was speechless, which stunned Dimitri into speechlessness of his own, but this only lasted a few seconds. She was quickly recovered, and found her words. "You'll go to bed at once. You can come back at teatime when you're willing to apologize. Mama's heard every word you just said, and if she missed any bit of it, don't for a moment think I won't recount it to her later to spare myself blushing with shame! And I _am_ ashamed of you, Alexei, _very_."

Alexei fled the room, brushing past Dimitri without even a glance. Despite this technically being an act of obedience, it still felt uncomfortably like a kind of defiance, and everyone remaining in the room knew it.

Maria stepped forward. Her contented look was gone now. "Oh, Tatya. You didn't have to be so harsh." She touched her sister's arm. "You know he's upset because Papa is disappointed in King George's refusal. Moreover, the guards took Bartok from him last night – just whisked his cage away while he was sleeping without letting him say goodbye.

"Alexei has had that bat so long, his heart's broken. You might have been kinder."

Dimitri was nonplussed. "They _took_ Bartok?"

There were tears in Maria's – and, to his shock, _Tatiana's_ – eyes. "Yes."

"They said Pooka can stay," Maria explained; "they think he may be a good rat catcher." Here she had to stop, and shudder, as if she expected one of the hypothetical rats to spring out at her right then and her sister's dog – wherever he was at the moment – to be powerless to protect her. "But they say Bartok carries disease."

"That's _insane_."

Tatiana looked at him as if noticing his presence for the first time. "I agree, but there's nothing we could do. Or Mama. Baby expected Mama to make it better." Her head was still high – Tatiana couldn't bring herself to lower it in the presence of someone who, despite all the confusion, was still, technically, their servant – but her eyes didn't keep with his the way they used to, dropping the gaze. "Or me."

"Oh, Tatya!" Maria threw her arms around her. "I'm sorry."

Olga swallowed, looking very much as if she did not know what to do or say. Finally she gestured that Dimitri might sit where Alexei had been, and join her in a game of Chess, such as it was, if he liked.

There was a lump in his throat as well, however, and – suddenly reminded of an old Livadia memory – Dimitri felt the need to excuse himself instead. He claimed he needed the lavatory; and so, made his exit.

* * *

"I don't see why we have to take pictures," spat Alexei, crossing his arms.

After sulking in his room almost the entire night (Alexandra had to have Olga bring him up some supper, or he wouldn't have eaten), Alexei was still inconsolable over the loss of Bartok and the hope – however dim – of rescue from their English cousins. To be told he had to pose for pictures – front and side, like some kind of criminal – well before breakfast was even served had certainly not helped.

None of his sisters seemed up to it, either. Maria had developed a runny nose that would not stop streaming at the most inappropriate moments; Olga had bags under her eyes, just like Alexandra; and while Tatiana looked at least as beautiful as she ever did, something – some spark of life – was notably, eerily absent.

Anastasia looked all right, except for the fact that she was almost as sulky as her brother, and insisted on carrying a squirming, snapping Pooka in her arms.

The pup was in such a foul mood of his own that he'd nearly taken a chunk out of Dimitri's shoulder when he walked too close to them while attending to Alexei. At any rate, the 'mutt' as Dimitri put it, had definitely torn what was one of the few decent shirts he had left.

"Men are such _babies_ ," grumped Anastasia, rolling her eyes as she turned to answer Alexei's question. "Because, being men, the guards are so insecure they don't think their government will stand for it if rumors start that they don't have all of us here. _That's_ why we have to take pictures."

Her father glanced at her warily. "Be quiet, Shvybzik."

Dimitri let out an anxious breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding in. He'd started to wonder if anyone was going to censor her before it was too late. God bless the Tsar – or former Tsar, or whoever he was now.

Anastasia almost smiled at her father's use of the endearing old nickname of her childhood but left it too late, leaving only the ghost of a would-have-been-grin on her pale, tired face.

To Anastasia, Dimitri's, and Nicholas' extreme displeasure, it was the guard who had nearly shot Anastasia that unfortunate day at the window who seemed poised and ready to usher them into the room where their pictures were to be taken.

"We will," began the guard, tonelessly, "start with the children – eldest one first."

Olga stepped forward.

"The rest of us will have seats provided while we wait," Alexandra prompted. "Yes?"

"You can stand for the time it takes to take a few _pictures_ , can you not?"

"I don't think it's too much to ask for; a few chairs," she pressed on in spite of his not so slick attempt at 'subtle' bullying. "I've been weak in the legs all day, and as for Alexei–"

"Sunny." Nicholas put a hand on her arm, silencing her.

After only one, "But Nicky, my love, I only–" she stopped, and leaned against Tatiana's shoulder.

"There, there, Mama, it's all right," Tatiana tried to console her. "It won't take very long, really. It's only pictures, after all. Look, Alexei is fine; Dimitri's with him."

* * *

One at a time, the girls had filed in and sat expressionless as their pictures were taken. They only moved or reacted when the guard pointed at something he wanted them to look at or when he snapped at Maria for accidentally sneezing as the flash went off.

Then came Anastasia's turn. She had left Pooka behind when she entered the room, but – for reasons then unfathomable to the only two guards in the room – was holding a big white, feathered fan.

It was closed, at first, and she had it on her lap, which was out of the frame, so they thought it was all right, if childish and extravagant. Until she flicked it open and fluttered it in front of her face (while making notable, for lack of a better term, duck-lips) as soon as the shutter went down.

Already in a bad temper over Maria's sneezing, and having a particular disdain for Anastasia after she made him look the fool over that waving out the window business, the guard who'd led her in completely lost it. His face went purple without even a shade of transitory pink or magenta on the way and the veins in his neck and forehead stood out, pulsing.

It sure was a show to watch, and Anastasia was more amused than frighted at the beginning of his outburst. She had to struggle not to laugh.

"Ignorant little bitch!" The guard surged forward, his rage far from spent, and backhanded her so hard she fell from the chair, her weight landing on the fan, snapping and tearing it into two neat pieces under her.

She was so surprised, as she fell, that she screamed. Prompting a wheezing Maria, Dimitri, her father, and Alexei all to come barging into the room, demanding to know what was going on.

The guard standing over her, plus her flaming red cheek, and the shock on the face even of the other guard – still behind the camera, with his hands now trembling – said everything.

Anastasia whimpered, as an attempt to keep herself from sobbing. Dimitri heard the low sound in the dead-silent room and – between him and a clench-fisted Alexei – the guard was in real danger of getting himself pummeled, damn whatever the consequences might be, and Nicholas looked as if he might let them do it.

The guard, however, made his exit in the nick of time. It was either stop and confront him, or rush to Anastasia's side to help her back up (as Maria was doing without a second's hesitation), and they – somewhat reluctantly – chose the latter.


	10. Love and A Daisy in Siberia

_Love and a Daisy in Siberia_

After the incident with the fan, things fell into a strangely idyllic routine. Suddenly, the awful guard who had shot at Anastasia and attacked her over the fan prank was not to be found anywhere on the grounds; everyone was quite convinced he must have been dismissed. Maria's cold vanished almost overnight and she awoke one beautiful, blue morning with roses in her cheeks like old times. Alexei had had no accidents, and while he missed Bartok desperately, he had stopped moping over what could not be changed and begun smiling and being his usual self again. This pleased both his parents, and made them more at ease with themselves and others around them. Even the guards must have thought, from time to time, that they seemed like a regular mother and father with their brood; not quite the evil tsar and tsarina they'd dethroned. At any rate, they allowed the Romanovs access to some of their luggage they had kept away from them before, and they behaved less grumpily towards them.

That day, the girls were allowed to spend time outside on the grounds and were making the best of it. Olga and Tatiana (free from Alexandra's side likely for the first time since she'd come to Tobolsk) were sharing a single, gilded volume of _War & Peace_ under the shade of a tree; Anastasia and Maria were strolling arm-in-arm, each carrying a wicker basket, looking for largely non-existent berries and flowers.

"Did you read the skit I wrote?" Anastasia asked Maria, referring to a few pages covered in her messy, loopy script she'd left under her sister's pillow a couple nights prior.

Maria reached up to straighten her hat. "Oh, yes, I liked it – it was _funny_! Though, I think you were a bit mean to poor Dimitri, making him a con-artist."

She feigned shock. " _Mashka_! That was an invented character – he's not based on _anyone_ , least of all Dimitri."

"He _sounds_ exactly like Dimitri." Maria shrugged. "You even gave him that weird eye twitch thing Dimitri does when he's frustrated with Alexei's antics."

"Oh, _does_ Dimitri do that?" Anastasia arched a brow and forced her mouth from a hard line into a faux-surprised O. "I hadn't noticed. I never notice _him_."

"Of _course_ you notice him – you've got loads of drawings of him in your sketch book." Maria's meaning was more innocent than mortified Anastasia would have ever believed. "You draw him a bit _fat_ , maybe – too many circles and ovals, you know – but it's still him. And well detailed. All the lines of his face and everything. Olga and Governess wouldn't like them – they need that sort of thing to be perfect, but I think they're splendid. What made you think to draw him so often?" She stopped suddenly, reaching up for her drooping hat again. "Why are you blushing?"

"I'm not!"

Maria sighed and decided to change the subject slightly. "So many handsome guards, and none of them ever talk to me anymore. Not even Boris. He snubbed me, last time I waved." They may have been being nicer to their parents, but they'd also started ignoring the girls, probably because of Anastasia getting smacked over that fan nonsense and the guard who struck her getting sacked. "We're never going to find any flowers in this place. What I wouldn't give for just one of these uniformed men to be nice and bring us a flower and say hello – even if it was only a weed."

There was a bang. Quick and unexpected. Anastasia, instinctively thinking one of the guards was shooting at her again, ducked and screeched, dragging Maria down with her.

Maria began to cry. Both from the pain of having her arm yanked and from the shock and fear of whatever was happening that she was failing – as always, it seemed these days – to understand.

Olga and Tatiana looked up, their anxiety surely rising at the sound of their little sisters' screams.

A guard they'd never seen before appeared crouched beside Anastasia. "It was just a truck backfiring, Comrade Romanova. On the other side of the fence."

"I'm sorry." She stared up at him. "I... I don't know..."

"An easy mistake to make," he said. "May I help you and your sister up?"

"Oh, please do," sighed Maria, delighted at his attention, even if he was paying more of it to her little sister.

Once they were back on their feet, brushing grass off their skirts, the guard explained that he knew about the shooting at the window. "I saw the pictures of you with the fan, too. I thought they were rather amusing, actually."

Anastasia grinned at that. "Why, thank you."

"You shouldn't have been punished for a bit of fun. It wasn't dangerous. They might have just taken another photograph." He stretched out his hand, but she didn't take it, still clutching her wicker basket. She could have offered him no more than the middle of her arm at best. "I'm Gleb, by the way."

It was surprisingly nice to meet him, and Anastasia nearly told him so, but he noticed she was still trembling and interrupted what her next words would have been with an inquiry as to whether or not she smoked and generously took a stray cigarette from his breast pocket as an offering.

"Thanks." She set down her basket to accept it.

It wasn't until later it occurred to Anastasia that Tatiana probably saw her take it and deducted that she was a smoker. Their Mama would hear of it soon. She decided, though, that maybe she didn't care – she hadn't had a cigarette since they came to this place and was eager for one. Eager enough to risk it.

"I find it often settles _my_ nerves," Gleb explained, reaching into his coat for another pocket from which he produced a box of matches.

Olga was at their side now, having left Tatiana behind with the book. "Are you the new guard – to replace...?" Her voice trailed off.

"Indeed." He was still looking at Anastasia. "I had heard you were unruly girls with vicious tempers. I'm pleased to see none of that nonsense appears true."

"Well, I really must bring the little pair back inside." Olga's tone was matter of fact. "It's nearly time for lunch."

Anastasia was disappointed that she was pulling her away before this friendly new guard could light the cigarette he'd given her.

"I hope you don't think this impertinent, Comrade, but–" Gleb was addressing her again. "See, I heard your sister talking about how you like to draw. I'm an amateur artist myself. Would you mind if I showed you some of my work sometime?"

Both Anastasia and Maria nodded, but Olga only tried to hustle them away faster. "Do come along!"

* * *

Gleb and Anastasia, against the odds, became fast friends. When she praised the drawings he showed her, he began to draw some just for her specifically. Usually of a little squirrel or mouse wearing various tiaras – he had noticed animals with human things, like neckties and bows and crowns, usually got a smile out of her.

The other guards must have liked Gleb, or thought better him than them when it came to dealing with the Romanov sisters, because they turned a blind eye to his chatting with the former tsar's youngest daughter. He did put forth a little effort to be friendly also to Olga, who froze him out distrustfully, but Gleb didn't even bother with Tatiana, so alike to her German Mama. As for Maria, she was almost like Anastasia's dog Pooka as far as he was concerned. She hung around as much as possible, did not smoke even when her younger sister did, and was always devoted and adoring, never taking offense in the slightest.

There was no challenge in conversation with _her_ – Gleb believed that he might have said the sky was green and she'd have agreed simply to keep him talking longer.

Former Tsar Nicholas hadn't noticed Anastasia and Gleb's cheery fraternizing yet, but Alexei's companion had, and Gleb was anticipating a confrontation from this young man.

He saw the way this man looked at the youngest Comrade Romanova, and that told him all he needed to know. The brother's companion was smitten with the young lady, and was long used to the guards either being cruel or paying her no mind; certainly, he didn't like their friendly banter, or the scraps of papers that were drawings but might easily be mistaken for love notes, passed between them.

* * *

Maria had begun to pick up on the fact that Gleb did not care much for her. At least Boris, back when he spoke to her, had seemed to enjoy her company. With Gleb, it was obvious he merely put up with her in order to associate with Anastasia, whose antics he found much more interesting than her fawning admiration. So, she began to pull back, go off to sit a short ways away if Gleb and Anastasia were chatting. Not far off enough for things to seem indecent, or for her younger sister to be unattended, but enough to give them space.

Space Anastasia might not care about, but Gleb certainly did.

At first, Anastasia didn't notice. Then, one unseasonably warm afternoon, when she'd brought a photograph of Papa and Cousin George in England – one she'd used as a starting point for a recent sketch – to show Gleb, she suddenly saw it all so clearly.

Maria, plainly bored and lonely, yet giving only the warmest of smiles when she thought she was glancing her way, trying to bear it all so admirably.

"I've been a beast," she said, aloud without meaning to.

"I'm sorry, my mind must have been elsewhere." Gleb blinked at her. "Did you say something, Comrade Romanova?"

"No, no, I was just thinking..." She stopped. There might be a way to fix this, a way to thank Maria for being such a giving, caring sister and cheer her up. "Gleb, would you do me a favor?"

"If it's something within my power." He motioned over at two other guards, his superiors, standing nearby. "I'm not a superior officer, you understand, so if it's something such as extra rations for your family, or–"

"No, no, nothing like that," she assured him. "I don't want you to get in trouble – you've been very kind..."

"What is it, then?"

In a lower whisper, Anastasia told him, raising her eyebrows.

His eyes widened with amused surprise and a short laugh escaped him. "Is that all? And here I thought..." He laughed again, then cleared his throat. "Certainly I can do that if you think it will help."

Pleased, Anastasia kissed him quickly on the cheek. It was meant as no more intimate a gesture than a thank you kiss for Alexei would have been, less even. Still, there was some minor blushing on both sides.

* * *

A few feet away, opposite side of the browning lawn from where Maria sat, Alexei had been playing ball with Dimitri, who'd – for most of Gleb and Anastasia's exchange – been too busy making sure the ex-tsarevich didn't fall or run too fast and jolt himself. He heard nothing they said, only regarding them both a little coldly out of the corner of his eye now and again.

But he saw the kiss and the result of reddened cheeks on both parties.

That confrontation Gleb had been expecting was certainly on its way. It would be there in less than an hour, as soon as Alexei was back inside with his sisters for tea.

* * *

It took a little longer than Dimitri expected to get Gleb relatively alone, because the guard had ushered Maria aside just as the other girls (including Anastasia) had slipped over the threshold with Alexei, answering the calls of their beckoning parents and what was left of the servants (excluding Dimitri).

"Here, I thought you might like a real flower for those baskets you're always carrying out." Gleb handed Maria what looked like a little white daisy. "I know you can't find much on this property."

Maria was beyond words, tears forming in her eyes. "Thank you! I'll press it into a book tonight so I can save it."

"It was nothing, Comrade Romanova, please enjoy your tea."

Maria, clutching the daisy, was in such a daze of happiness, she didn't even realize Dimitri was lingering behind when usually – servant or no – he was among the first to want to eat. Nearly always hungry, he was not entirely changed from that little boy who'd sneaked into the Romanov party in a stolen fur coat for vatrushka all those years ago.

"Excuse me," Dimitri simpered, eyes like daggers at Gleb. "We need to talk."

"What's on your mind, Comrade?" His tone was too silky smooth.

"Your behavior with the princesses."

"Friend, there _are_ no princesses anymore. That was the whole point of the revolution."

Part of Dimitri was furious at himself for the mistake – he wasn't supposed to speak of them as royalty anymore, he knew that. The other part of him wanted to punch Gleb in the nose for being a prick about it. And for having the nerve to call him _friend_. To fraternize shamelessly with Anastasia and then write him, Dimitri, off as a simple mate, a fellow comrade, that fueled his hatred the most.

"I'm not your friend," Dimitri growled. _And I'm not your Comrade, either. The hell with your stupid revolution I never asked for in the first place. We were all fine with things the way they were._

"Listen, if the guards see nothing amiss about my behavior, it is far from your place to–"

"You're a real piece of work," Dimitri cut him off.

Peering over his shoulder to make sure no one was listening too closely, Gleb quickly said, "I know what troubles you. It's not impropriety, so you might as well drop the charade. Your acting only works when somebody present _wants_ to believe in it.

"Now, be frank. It's your own attraction to the youngest Comrade Romanova, is it not?"

Now he _really_ wanted to punch him. " _Attraction_! To that skinny little brat? Have you lost your mind?" Perhaps he was going a bit far, but he wasn't going to let Gleb play these games with him just because he was annoyingly perceptive. No need to let the guy believe himself downright clairvoyant, smug jerk that he was. "Attraction! Ridiculous! And another thing, I..." He frowned, his eyebrows sinking into each other. "Why are you making those slashing motions?"

The sound of feet hurrying away behind Dimitri, back in the still-open doorway, answered for an uncomfortable Gleb.

"That was her, wasn't it?" Dimitri asked, wishing the ground would swallow him.

"I tried to warn you, Comrade." Gleb winced apologetically.

 _Oh, shut up._ Dimitri turned and ran back into the house, hoping he could correctly guess what direction Anastasia had gone in.

* * *

With all the guards and their endless snooping (apart from Gleb, who didn't seem to care what they did so long as they didn't try to leave the premises), Anastasia didn't have a lot of options. She could return to her family's teatime, visibly distressed, and answer (or rather lie about) a thousand questions, or she could go to the lavatory, or she could go back to currently empty room she shared with her sisters.

She chose the empty room. Standing beside her bed, she wanted for the tears to come. She expected them, angry and hot. How could she not be furious, with what she overheard?

But the exacerbated fury didn't produce the expected tears, only a hollowness that was so much worse. She wanted to feel the way she'd felt on the train, when Dimitri made it seem like anything that might have been between them was an entirely one-sided crush on her part. It had been easy to dismiss his stupidity, then; to think she didn't really need him. Now, it was hopeless. Maybe because, even when she ignored him or felt snubbed by him, she knew – more than she ever had before – that she _did_ need him.

Worse, his calling her a brat put her back in mind of what Derevenko had done to Alexei. She knew Dimitri hadn't been that way when they left the palace, but maybe now he regretted his choice. Maybe now he was growing to resent her as much as Derevenko had resented Alexei. Maybe he was just waiting for his chance to be cruel, practicing behind her back.

Speak of the devil. Dimitri entered the room, a little out of breath. " _Ana_."

She was surprised, and had to struggle to hide it. Dimitri didn't speak informally to her, usually, and she honestly struggled to recall the last time he'd used Alexei's nickname for her, let alone hadn't tacked on _your highness_. Olga had once told him to just call them by their names; sometimes, he had remembered to do so, though less with Anastasia than the others, but even so it was almost always their proper names. Rarely their familiar nicknames.

"Yes?" she said, her tone icy, though her heart was pounding.

"What you heard..."

"What, that you think I'm a skinny little brat?" Her blue eyes were at their darkest hue.

"I didn't mean that," he tried, awkwardly waving it off. "Obviously that part wasn't true."

"Go on."

"I mean, _skinny little brat_? That was just something I said to get that nosy guard off my back."

"Completely untrue?" she pressed.

"Absolutely. You're not even that skinny."

" _Excuse me_?"

He slapped his forehead and groaned. "No, _God_ , that came out wrong. That's not what I meant!"

"You think I'm _fat_ now?"

"No, of course not."

" _You're_ the one who never misses a meal!"

"Please just listen to me," he begged. "I just wanted to talk to him about how he's always... _bothering_ you... Things got out of hand. He was just so smug, and I–"

Anastasia crossed her arms. "He wasn't."

"Wasn't what?"

"Bothering me," she said. "I like Gleb." Her eyes narrowed. "And I think you know that."

"Is that why you kissed him?" He almost choked on the words, from the sound of them, how they finally came out.

Anastasia gave him a haughty smirk. "Ha! I _knew_ that's what this was about."

"You think he cares about you?" Dimitri snapped. "You think he gives a damn? He hates your family. Have you seen the way he looks at your mother and Tatiana? That's the way children look at inanimate objects, for heaven's sake! Just because he gave Maria a flower, and smiles like a demented clown, doesn't mean he's not just amusing himself with you."

"You _idiot_!" Anastasia shoved him in the chest, almost knocking him off balance. "I _told_ him to give Maria that flower. And he said he would. _That's_ why I kissed him.

"I know he doesn't like my family, I'm not stupid. But he likes talking to me, and he _is_ my friend."

"That's not a friendship – you're his prisoner."

"I think you're jealous, Dimitri."

"There's nothing to be jealous of." He didn't sound convinced of his own statement in the slightest.

"And so what if there was?" she demanded, nearly bursting into those tears she couldn't cry earlier. "Is it so wrong to want someone outside of my family to like me – maybe even love me?"

"It is if it's _him_!" Dimitri raised his voice a bit louder than he meant to.

"If not him, then _who_?" she croaked brokenly.

His answer was not in words; it was instead his lips pressed against hers in a deep kiss and an arm around her waist, drawing her to him.

Breaking away for a moment, Anastasia grinned up at him, her anger gone. "Took you long enough."

"It's still not right," he reminded her. "And weren't you supposed to slap me?"

She rolled her eyes. "I will, if you don't stop telling me it's wrong." Sighing, she leaned in to kiss him again.

His lips were inches from hers before he murmured, "Someone will see... We've been up here too long."

"And we were shouting," she realized in a soft, breathy whisper.

"That too." He pulled further away from her, but she still held his hand.

"Dimitri?" Her fingers threaded through his.

"Yes?"

"You'd better mean it this time."

"I wish I didn't." He reached over with his free hand to tuck a disheveled strand of red hair behind her left ear and wound up stroking the side of her face. "You have no idea how much."


	11. A Snow Mountain

_A Snow Mountain_

For the family, nothing changed but the weather. After Gleb's arrival, there were no further new guards. Nobody else got sacked.

The air grew colder, the sky more gray. The girls – and especially Alexei – were allowed out less and less often, allegedly for their own health and protection, yet still clung – whatever the brutal Russian weather might throw at them – to the short times they did have.

It was so cold that Maria, who told Anastasia she thought smoking in front of men unladylike and had nothing but a shrug in response when her sister pointed out their Papa was a man and she'd smoked in front of him, finally gave in to Gleb's still frequent offers of cigarettes. It became a common sight to see the little pair stamping their feet and smoking under the same tree Tatiana and Olga had read _War and Peace_ beneath back when the temperature had been comfortable. For whatever reason, Tatiana didn't tell on them, and Alexandra – if she'd ever found out on her own – said nothing. Perhaps she wanted, after all, for her girlies to have whatever small comfort they could out here.

Dimitri longed to join them under that tree; both to be close to Anastasia and to have a smoke himself (it had been a while for him as well). But he'd never have lowered himself to ask Gleb for a cigarette, and the guard only offered it freely to the girls. Besides, he was needed with Alexei, who was not permitted to smoke ( _this_ Alexandra would have likely put an immediate stop to, no questions asked) and did not wish to waste precious outdoor hours stomping under a tree with his sisters at any rate.

Furthermore, Alexei didn't like or trust Gleb, which naturally endeared him more than ever to Dimitri, who shared his sentiments wholeheartedly.

Once, Dimitri asked him what it was he disliked about Gleb in particular. Not that it mattered. Alexei could have said he despised the manner in which Gleb whistled through his nose when he breathed and Dimitri would have thought the boy to be perfectly right. Still, it was a curiosity in a house of very few curious things. So he'd given in and asked for an explanation.

Alexei's answer chilled him. "I don't like the way he looks at Ana."

Despite their shared kiss in the girls' room, which had thawed some of the tension Gleb's constant hanging around Anastasia caused, Dimitri still felt jealous from time to time. They still couldn't be open about their feelings – all they had was an exchanged look now and again, or the touch of the other's foot under the table if they were sitting directly across from each other at a meal by chance. On occasion, if Anastasia wanted him to take particular notice of her, she wore the blue dress he'd given her for her eighteenth birthday, and – perhaps a bit cruelly – sent him into hours of agitation, wanting so badly to be closer to this teasing, beautiful ex-princess. He wanted to hold her and _feel_ the fabric of her dress, not just see it from across a room while he sat playing cards or lining up toy soldiers with her little brother.

He wondered from time to time if she might not change her feelings and fall for Gleb instead of him. It was just as forbidden, not to mention downright idiotic, considering Gleb's hatred of her family, but since when was love sensible? _Theirs_ – what there was of it – certainly wasn't.

And even if she was true to him, and he to her, that wouldn't change things on _Gleb's_ end _._ It had to be more than mere jealousy and stir-crazed madness if Alexei could see it, too.

Furthermore, if Alexei could notice the looks Gleb gave his sister, could he start to notice Dimitri's? Did his familiarity with the boy protect him from such detection, or was he on borrowed time as the boy grew more and more perspective? If he did realize how Dimitri felt about Anastasia, would he out them? How soon would the guards know? Or Nicholas? Or Alexandra?

What hope was there, really?

All Dimitri could say in the end was that he didn't like the way Gleb looked at her either.

"You wouldn't let him hurt her, right?" Alexei's eyes were bright, intense, focused on his friend's face. "You'd protect her, wouldn't you?"

"With my life," he swore, putting his arm around the boy's shoulders.

Alexei nodded, relaxing somewhat. "Good."

* * *

When snow fell and piled up higher and higher on the lawn, the Romanov children had the idea of building a hill for sledding. Alexandra was skeptical; but Nicholas loved the idea and he, Doctor Botkin, and Dimitri, spent hours helping the girls and Alexei pile snow and bring buckets of water to freeze over the top to make it slick enough.

By the time it was done, it was higher and better even than they'd expected.

To the delighted children, it was a magical mountain.

"Will it be safe for Baby?" Alexandra fretted, seeing her son rushing towards it with his sled, perhaps more than a little in mind of the last time Alexei had used a sled – in that attempt to kill himself on the stairs back at the palace.

"It will be perfectly safe, Sunny," Nicholas assured her.

She turned to Dimitri next. "Now, I'm counting on you. Safe or not, accidents might happen and it's up to you to see that they don't."

Her tone made him straighten his back and stand as attentively as he could manage with aching arms, sore feet, and frozen hands.

"You make sure now that my Alexei doesn't jolt himself one bit on the way down. You understand what a small bump will do. You hold him straight, you hear me? And don't you dare let him go down by himself. Not even if he begs."

Dimitri started to nod, but was interrupted by Nicholas. "Don't stress the lad, his services won't be necessary. Although, of course he may slide down with the girls if he likes – heaven knows he's earned a break."

Alexei brightened. "You mean I _can_ go on my own?"

"Certainly not!" Nicholas was shocked his son would be dense enough to ask such a thing. "I will be going with you."

"Truly?" Alexei's brow shot up.

"What, an old man who helped _build_ this hill can't have a bit of fun on it?"

Alexandra was smiling as Alexei threw his arms around Nicholas' neck. "You're not old at all, Papa."

* * *

As it happened, sledding arrangements took longer than expected. There were only a certain number of sleds and several of the younger guards – including, to Dimitri's annoyance, Gleb and Maria's fair-weather friend Boris – wanted a turn going down the snow mountain, too. Also, Doctor Botkin expressed interest in trying it out. Since he'd helped construct it, he could hardly be fairly refused.

Boris ended up on Maria's sled; Gleb was paired with another guard who'd brought his own, complete with rough, splinter-inducing wooden seat and questionably safe runners. Tatiana and Olga shared. This left Anastasia and Dimitri on the same sled, an arrangement they both tried their hardest not to look _too_ happy about. Botkin was slatted to take a turn on Alexei's sled when he and Nicholas were finished with it; this wouldn't take long as Alexandra had said Alexei, for his own safety, ought to have no more than three rides down the hill.

Anastasia insisted on steering her own sled, so Dimitri sat behind her with his arms around her waist, desperately hoping she didn't attempt to do any stunts and get them flung off the side.

Things were going well until the snowy ground was almost in sight, the ride nearly complete without incident, and Anastasia decided on trying a small jump. " _Weee_!"

Dimitri shut his eyes. He couldn't help it. It was either that or start swearing profusely.

When he opened them again, the sled was caught in a nearby bush, he had a thin cut (more of a scratch, really, but it drew blood) on his cheek that hadn't been there before, and he and Anastasia were lying in a snowbank, staring up at the gray sky through a thin row of spidery tree limbs.

After his heart rate returned to relative normality, Dimitri found himself thinking that, if they were alone and Anastasia was not an imprisoned princess, he might have rolled himself on top of her and kissed her right there in that snowbank. She just looked so comely, lying there with bright red cheeks and a gigantic cocky smile on her lips.

He was quickly snapped out of these thoughts – and prevented from taking a chance and turning them into actions – by Alexandra's piercing voice. " _Anastasia Nicholaevna_!"

"Hello, Mama." She sat up, her smile quickly changing from something Dimitri found as sensual as it was mischievous to plain sheepish.

"What possessed you to do that?" the ex-Tsarina demanded, arms folded, her expression a far cry from joking. "You could have hurt yourself. Worse still, you've set a terrible example for Alexei! You know how he looks up to you. If Sunbeam copied your ridiculous little sled-flip, thinking it a great laugh, he could..." Her voice faltered, growing choked. Recovering herself, she uncrossed her arms and threw up her hands. "Oh, for mercy's sake, child, just get back inside. You're done for the day – that will teach you to play fast and loose like that."

Anastasia stood up and brushed crusted snow off her long, woolen skirt.

Dimitri would have escorted her back inside (and perhaps had opportunity to steal that kiss after all), only it seemed too conspicuous. Off duty or not, he was still Alexei's companion. To follow one of the girls when they were sent inside as a punishment would have been viewed as odd.

That Anastasia was eighteen and perhaps too old to be sent to her room like this would never be brought up. Olga was the eldest and she was treated much the same.

Olga was also the only one of the four Dimitri had ever seen talk back to their mother, and the result was never pretty.

So he stayed behind and wondered if this was how it would always have to be – a hodgepodge of bitter uncertainty and stolen moments, keeping most of whatever was between them more in their minds than in reality – regardless of what titles Anastasia did or did not hold or where the Romanov family lived.


	12. Vows and What Came of Them

_Vows and What Came of Them_

Dimitri was startled by a knock at his bedroom door. Or rather, that is to say, the door of the bedroom he shared with Doctor Botkin in that cold Tobolsk house surrounded by guards.

This arrangement was made because both he and Botkin's function within the former royal family was to attend to Alexei, so setting them up in the same out of the way room was the guards' idea of being proficient. Although, as far as Dimitri was concerned – when your guards couldn't even keep their own faces washed, hair combed, and uniforms unwrinkled on a daily basis – no amount of rooming arrangements was going to make 'proficient' an adjective that in any way applied to them.

The knock at the door surprised him because no one had knocked there before. The guards had no need to, and the family trusted him to show up when he was expected. If Alexei had injured or ill, of course someone would have coming knocking for Botkin, but mercifully his health hadn't been at risk recently.

Still, when he opened the door to find Anastasia there, looking a bit flushed, his first thought was that it was an emergency with Alexei.

"Botkin's not in here, but don't worry, I think I know where he is; I'll go get him," Dimitri blurted, bending over and fumbling in search of his boots, which he'd just taken off and set under his narrow cot. "How bad is he? Does Alexei–"

"No, no," Anastasia cut him off. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you, Alexei's fine."

" _Jesus_." Exhaling, Dimitri put his hand to his chest for a moment. "Don't do that to me."

"Sorry," she repeated, grimacing. "Are you all right?"

" _Fine_ ," he said, more coldly than he meant to, not quite looking at her. "Why are you here?"

Anastasia held up one of the family's many photo albums, its worn gold-lettered spine comfortingly familiar. "The guards finally let us have them. I guess none of the photographs prove Mama's a German spy so it's... Wait, let me see if I can get this just right." Here she pursed her lips and did her best impression of a haughty officer. "'Of no earthly use' to them."

Dimitri smirked in spite of himself. All Anastasia needed was a dirty uniform reeking of week-old sweat and a hat to cover her hair and she could have passed for one of the higher-ranking guards.

But then, she always was a near-perfect mimic.

"Anyway, I came across _this_ photograph, and I thought you might like to see it." She opened the album, flipped a couple of leaves forward, and handed it to him.

"Oh, my." Dimitri shook his head, overcome by memories he'd nearly forgotten. "That's us." He hadn't even been Alexei's companion for a full month when this was taken. Back then, he'd still secretly shuddered every time he saw the cook, irrationally fearing that the tyrant could pull him back into the kitchens forever, whatever the Tsar had to say about it. "You were only eight, you and Maria got brownie cameras as a gift from someone at court."

She nodded. "Yes, Vlad gave them to us. He always was kind."

"I miss him sometimes," Dimitri admitted shortly.

"Me too. I wonder if he's married Sophie yet. They never did let us send that card Mashka wanted, did they?"

Tears threatened, making the back of his eyes feel hot. Dimitri refocused his attention on the photograph. In it, he and Anastasia were standing in their sock feet on chairs that probably cost an insane amount of rubles; they were in a parlor room, staring into a gilded mirror so large it took up most of the wall. Anastasia had wanted a picture of their reflections, which was exactly what she took. All of the room that could be seen in the photograph was brighter, burnished and softened by the mirror's shimmer.

"Why was I even in that room with you?" For the life of him, Dimitri couldn't remember how they'd ended up alone that day, so many years ago. By all accounts, he should have been with Alexei.

Anastasia leaned over and tapped on a small object in the mirror's corner. "Alexei's shoe. He was sleeping on the couch behind us. He was sick that day."

"How do you remember all that?" Dimitri asked, impressed. To him, the shoe just looked like a shadow; it didn't jog his memory of what had been going on that day even in the slightest.

Her expression went a little sad. "I remember every time Alexei was sick."

He immediately felt insensitive. Could he have _put_ his foot any deeper into his mouth? "I'm sorry – I wish _I_ did."

She shook her head. "No, you don't. Trust me. It's better when you can forget sometimes."

"I get it, I know how close you've always been."

"It's a miracle he's been well since we got here," she said softly, looking down. "I hate seeing him suffer – he's my best friend."

"Actually, your best friend is–" He'd been about to say that, as far as who she confided in and spent the most time with went, her sister Maria was more like a best friend to her, but she sharply cut him off.

"I _know_ who my best friend is!"

" _Temper_!" Dimitri scolded.

"Sorry." Anastasia's cheeks turned bright pink. "I shouldn't snap at you like that, though you _can_ be infuriating sometimes. I just don't like being contradicted."

He shrugged with faux-innocence, trying not to grin. "That makes two of us."

She met his eyes, then looked back down at the photograph. "I can't believe how young we were. We've been through a lot together." Slowly, she closed the book, starting for the door. Then, "Dimitri?"

"Yes?"

"Can I ask you a question without you making fun of me?"

" _Me_?" He pointed to himself in an exaggerated, rather theatrical, expression of shock. "Me, make fun of you? Never."

"Forget it." Her hand flew to the doorknob.

"Wait, hold on a minute." Dimitri leaped in front of her, blocking her way. "Hold on. I'll be serious. What is it?"

"Well, I don't want to ask you _now_ ," she snapped, rolling her eyes.

"I mean it; I'll be nice. What is it?"

"It's just... I wanted to know... I was curious, if..." She swallowed. "If we were both common Russians – if you were never my brother's servant or the kitchen boy, and I wasn't the Tsar's daughter – would you have asked me to marry you?"

The question surprised him, though maybe it shouldn't have. He imagined – in a bizarre world where this deposed princess was somehow, impossibly common – they'd have been engaged young, probably married when she turned sixteen, two years ago. They might be having their two-year anniversary now, in some small house in Saint Petersburg, and have never met Gleb.

Ah, that must be what _heaven_ was like.

"No," he answered.

"I see." Her face paled, draining quickly of color and happiness as her hand reached around him and settled more firmly on the knob, then began to turn it.

"Let's be realistic here, _you'd_ probably have asked _me_." He arched an eyebrow. "You always have to lead."

Her face lighting up, struggling against a smile, she punched his arm. "You promised not to make fun of me! You were supposed to be _nice_." She pouted in an eerily on-spot impression of the look on his face when he'd claimed to be serious.

"I didn't finish," he protested, gently prying her fingers off the knob. "You'd have asked me, and I'd have said yes."

Her face drew closer to his.

"Probably."

She pulled away and frowned at him. " _Probably_?"

"I'd still have had to work up the courage and go ask your father's permission," he pointed out. "What kind of hypothetical peasant do you take me for?"

"Oh, yes, because Papa is such a large, imposing fellow."

Dimitri had a sudden flash of what Nicholas might look like as a simple farmer; it was jarring. He looked more right in a simple shirt, happily whistling as he plowed a field than he looked as a short Tsar in all those court jewels in the most ornate of official portraits.

The image suddenly erased itself from behind his half-closed eyelids as Anastasia's mouth found his.

Kissing her in return, he pressed her back against the door. Letting go of her hand, he reached up and stroked the side of her face with his thumb. After a few moments, his palm slipped down to her neck, then her collarbone. The photo album she'd still been holding slipped from her grasp and landed on the floor beside them with a light _thud_.

A soft moan escaped her as her mouth opened and his tongue slipped inside.

They broke apart, gazing at each other in silent longing. In a few seconds, they both knew, she'd leave and things would go back to the way they'd been. Doctor Botkin would return to the room, never knowing Anastasia had visited it. Her sisters might ask her where she'd been, if they – or the surly guards – noticed her brief absence; she might claim a stomach upset and a lengthier trip to the lavatory than usual, or a walk down one of the lesser-used hallways. They'd either believe her, or pretend to for the sake of peace.

If he and Anastasia were lucky, they might sit near each other at supper tonight – that really was the most they could hope for.

And it was _clearly_ tearing them both apart, holding back so much pent up emotion.

"You should go," Dimitri whispered.

She blinked. "Yes, I have to go." Her voice was drained, dazed, and she wasn't actually making any effort to leave.

" _Ana_..." he breathed.

Her gaze refocused, more intent now. "Will you marry me?"

Almost choking on his own saliva, Dimitri stumbled backwards. "What?"

Tears shone in her eyes. "Please tell me you're not going to make me say it again."

"Ana," he tried, unable to get anything else out before she continued.

"Don't look so horrified. If you think that – in some other life – I'd have asked you first anyway..." Her voice petered off, growing slightly hoarse with insecurity.

His hand was over his mouth, and he had to look away for a moment to regain his composure. "We can't get married – in case you've forgotten, you're Queen bloody Victoria's great grandchild, and I'm a kitchen boy who stumbled onto your family secret and found himself closer to you than I was ever meant to be."

"What does _that_ have to do with anything?"

"You know, if King George _had_ let your family go to England, you'd probably be engaged to some prince by now."

"Don't be _stupid_."

He rolled his shoulders back. "The prince of Wales is about your age."

"I don't want the prince of Wales, you uptight prig – I want _you_."

"How do you think this is going to work?" he asked, in a low, cracking voice. "You think, even now, I could just walk out of this room, stroll up to the man who used to rule all of Russia, and say, 'I'd like to marry your youngest daughter, yes I'm fully aware she's a blue-blooded princess and I can't give her a blasted thing, but how about granting us permission anyway'?"

"Dimitri..."

"Oh, no," he went on, "I'm sure you can see the whole thing – the guards setting loose doves, maybe even handing you a letter of congratulation from some royal relative, soon as they're confident there's no secret message from the Whites encoded on it."

" _Dimitri_!" She stamped her foot. She hated it when he talked like this.

"For the reception we'll have day-old cake that tastes remarkably chalky. We'll be too busy trying to choke it down to think about the fact that we're still prisoners here."

"Will you _shut up_?"

"Your sisters are probably looking for you by now."

She closed her eyes and mumbled something under her breath, as if willing herself not to shout again and risk their being discovered, then slowly opened them. "I'm not an idiot, Dimitri, I _know_ we couldn't have an official ceremony. And I know you can't ask Papa for permission."

"So, what's your point?"

"I thought we could exchange vows." She shifted away from him and bent over to pick up the album, clutching it to her chest as if it would protect her from his defensive scorn. "Mama's been begging the higher officers to let us go to church services, and Tatiana thinks they might give in soon. We could say our vows privately, then pray for God's blessing in the church."

There was a long moment of silence. Anastasia took it for another no.

"Never mind, that was... I don't know what that was." She shuddered, lifting her trembling hand to her temples. "I must just be going a bit mad. Forget I said anything."

Against all logical argument, he couldn't let her leave now. Something told him, if he did, whatever was between them would melt away like the snow in spring. She wouldn't ask again, not after this embarrassment, and he'd never bring himself to ask her. Maybe she really _would_ end up married to the damned prince of Wales when this was all over. Perhaps as an act of forgiveness between Nicholas and George. Dimitri didn't think he could stand that.

His hand snagged her wrist as he lowered himself onto bended knee. "I take thee, Anastasia Nicholaevna..."

* * *

For Anastasia, time had never before slowed to a crawl such as this, and it was maddening.

She stared at the ceiling of the bedroom, wide awake, listening to her sisters' collective breathing. She knew them all well enough to know what they sounded like in deep slumber verses still awake.

One of them was still up.

She could rule out Maria, at least, since she'd dozed off the minute her head hit the pillow. Tatiana might be asleep by now, too, though it generally took her longer, even if she was thoroughly exhausted from looking after Mama all day... But Olga was a worrier; she might be lying there, awake and anxious, just like her youngest sister, only for very different reasons.

At least, Anastasia thought, she didn't have to worry about falling asleep herself during this wait. She'd never been so alert in her life. It was something of a miracle none of her sisters could hear her heart thudding. To her own ears, it was the loudest of parade drums, worse at reminding her how long she'd already been waiting than the chimes of the hall clock (which evidently a guard or servant had remembered to wind today).

Finally, Olga's breathing seemed to regulate itself.

Exhaling, Anastasia threw back her covers, slid off the side of her cot as quietly as she could manage, and tip-toed across the chilly room.

Despite the little stove in the corner, lit with a roaring fire, it was still cold enough in the majority of their allotted nighttime space that she could see her breath. Alexandra had been complaining – for a good long while now – that it was too icy for her dear girlies to sleep comfortably, but such objections had only fallen on deaf ears so far.

As she made her way to the door, Anastasia caught a darkened glimpse of herself in a mirror Tatiana had hung up a couple days before. Suddenly pricked by a sense of vanity she'd never felt before, she ran her fingers through her hair, a little worried that she'd gotten it all messy lying there in wait for so long.

She wore only a thin white nightdress she'd borrowed from Maria, since her usual pajamas had a cocoa stain on them and were not particularly flattering. She'd never cared about that before, except tonight was different. Her _Together in Paris_ key-necklace dangled above her loose breasts – otherwise, she wore nothing else under the nightgown, not even the most basic of undergarments.

She had dabbed a very little bit of perfume – _La Violette Pourpre_ – on before climbing into her cot that evening. Not enough that her sisters could smell it and suspect something, just enough that someone pressed against her might notice.

Her bare arms were starting to turn blue. She figured she had better hurry and stop fussing over her hair and throw on the coat she'd hidden behind the small trunk of religious icons near the door before she froze to death.

Holding her breath as she slipped out, she took one last look around at her sisters' slumbering contours. Tatiana moaned and rolled over, murmuring something that sounded like an order in her sleep, but the other two remained as still as covered statues.

In addition to the coat, she had her thoughts of what she hoped was to come keeping her warm.

They didn't need to worry about an interruption from Botkin. Dimitri had told her that the doctor slept on the opposite side of the room, behind a makeshift curtain, and that he was so used to the stomping feet (which could be heard above them at nearly all hours, especially loud whenever the guards changed watches), it usually took a great deal to rouse him.

Also, just to make sure, Anastasia had gotten into Alexandra's herbs (the ones she used to help her sleep during her worst headaches) and slipped a little into Botkin's tea earlier.

Twice, she thought she heard guards coming behind her, and jumped into the shadows; but the footsteps were always several rooms away, nobody near enough to see her headed for the room where her brother's companion waited with a thudding heart of his own.

* * *

Dimitri had started to think she wasn't coming. He felt disappointed, but also slightly relieved.

What did they think they were doing anyway, playacting at being husband and wife because they'd said a few words to each other earlier that day?

Nothing had changed. She still should have been out of reach, the impossible ideal.

Yet, Botkin slept so soundlessly behind that curtain, not even snoring tonight, a constant reminder of what they'd foolishly planned.

So, she wasn't coming. Good. This would save them a great deal of embarrassment. By now Anastasia had surely realized this wasn't what she wanted. Perhaps, come morning, she would struggle to get a message to him that it had all been a terrible mistake. She couldn't be with him. He was a servant. It was only because she was so starved for company beyond her siblings and parents, and there were no princes here.

Only him, or the guards.

Dimitri rolled over onto his side, the cot creaking slightly as a frustrating thought hit him. Maybe Anastasia would decide that even a guard was better than a servant. Gleb would just _love_ that...

Then there was the light rap on the door; the agreed upon two short knocks in a row, followed by a pause.

He almost fell out of his cot from the shock. God, she actually _had_ come after all.

Answering the door, he stared at the vision that greeted him.

She'd shrugged off her coat as soon as he answered, so she stood there in the nightdress, looking like an angel in pure white with softly curling hair surrounding her beautiful face like an auburn halo.

Her blue eyes were wide, staring into his, then drifting downwards, making him suddenly aware of his own state of near undress. He wore only loose pants and an unbuttoned shirt worn so thin it would probably disintegrate the next time it was washed.

He took her hand. It felt cold, quickly thawing enfolded in his own.

Could this stunning, almost otherworldly woman he was taking to his bed really be the same princess he'd grown up with, seen nearly every single day since she was eight? Could she truly consider herself pledged to him? It seemed impossible. He felt like he was in a dream he'd wake up from any moment. Yes, a dream. And when he woke, he'd be alone, no princess, no lover, no might-be-wife.

She didn't _feel_ like a dream, though. Anastasia might have looked strangely ethereal that evening, but her hand in his was solid. The cot creaked doubly, with the weight of two people sitting on it.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" he whispered.

He felt her hands push against his chest, lightly nudging him onto his back. As she leaned over him, right before their mouths met and his arms locked around her, she murmured, " _Yes_."

* * *

Her head on her lover's chest, Anastasia couldn't sleep. Dimitri had fallen asleep a few minutes prior, and she hated to slip out without a word. Worse still would be to wake him when he seemed so peaceful.

There had always been this annoying restlessness about him, especially around her, like he couldn't just be comfortable, even during their most informal moments. What they'd done tonight had finally broken through that wall, and she was still admiring the view on the other side of it. To have him with her wholly, not restrained or tense, was like sinking into a warm bath, everything sweet and familiar, yet somehow as new and fresh as morning dewdrops.

She finally understood why her parents loved each other so dearly. Why her Papa had always been willing to sacrifice anything to make her Mama – his Sunny – happy. If any moment they'd shared together, in all their years of marriage, had felt _anything_ like this, she didn't know how they could stand _ever_ being apart.

It was too bad she couldn't stay, that soon she'd have to make the choice to slink away or else wake him to say goodbye. She had to be back in her room before her sisters woke – the Big Pair were usually up by the crack of dawn.

She couldn't hear the clock down here, which was a little vexing. How was she to know how much time she had left before risking another second was unsafe? She wanted to stay as long as possible.

It was so strange to think that this man whose chest was rising and falling under her cheek was the same boy she'd once accidentally hit with a rock-bearing snowball.

She was startled out of her reverie by a pounding on the door, rolling off of Dimitri and onto her side.

Dimitri bolted upright. "Damn!" He pulled the blanket over Anastasia's head. "Stay under there – they won't see you." With that, he climbed over her.

She could hear him as he stumbled to the door, now rattling on its weak hinges with the urgent, ever-louder pounding.

What could it possibly be? Had someone discovered her missing? Seen her sneak down here? _How_? She'd been so careful!

A voice – belonging to a servant, not a guard – uttered words that sent chills up her spine.

"It is Alexei – he is having an attack. We need Doctor Botkin immediately."

* * *

Botkin was too groggy to notice the extra person in the room after Dimitri finally managed to wake him. As soon as he heard Alexei needed him, despite barely being able to keep his eyes open, he immediately threw his coat on, grabbed his medical bag, and hustled himself and Dimitri out the door.

He never glanced in the direction of Dimitri's cot where Anastasia sat cross-legged and pale.

Guilt ridden, Anastasia watched them leave. Tears streamed down her face. If anything happened to Alexei because the doctor was half-asleep, it would be her fault. She'd been selfish and thoughtless. She had gotten so used to Alexei's good health, she'd taken it for granted. Part of her had forgotten that Botkin was more than just a man sharing Dimitri's room, more even than a family friend she'd known all her life – he was the man whose medical expertise had saved her little brother's life more times than she could count. Drugging him was probably the stupidest thing she had ever done.

Everything that had been so beautiful mere minutes before was so ugly now. She hated herself for having been happy, feeling pleasure and the delights of a girlish dream, while her brother – back in the real world – was suffering.

The only thing keeping her from flying out of the room and racing to Alexei's side that very second was the fear of being seen. Botkin had missed her, but she doubted the guards would if they were close by. She needed to listen for the precise moment she could slip out to rejoin her family.

In reality, she did not wait long, but it felt like an eternity.

By the time she reached her sisters, just outside of their room, Tatiana was comforting a crying Maria, and Olga was shutting the door behind them.

Tatiana sensed Anastasia's returned presence the way sisters who have rarely been apart in their lives often can. She didn't really look at her as she sighed, "Merciful lord, _there_ you are! We were starting to worry – come along now," never letting go of Maria or taking her focus off the matter at hand.

Olga, however, _did_ look at her little sister, and quickly grabbed her arm before she could dazedly follow the other two. "Anastasie, _stop_."

She did.

"Stay here."

Olga let go of her arm and calmly slipped back into their bedroom, returning with a wool dressing-gown that tied in the front. "Arms up."

Anastasia lifted her arms while Olga slipped them through the long sleeves. As her sister reached to pull her hair out of the back and smooth it out before attending to the front, Anastasia's head bent forward and she realized what the problem was.

A bloodstain on the skirt of her nightdress.

Once the dressing-gown was secured around her, Olga nodded and they went together to Alexei's room.

There, Anastasia broke free, both of Olga and of her numbed state of mind, rushing to her brother's bedside. " _Alyosha_!" She grasped his bony, clammy hand in her own. "Please forgive me – this is all my fault."

He goggled at her through the pain, not comprehending.

Olga put a hand on her shoulder to steady her. Lowering herself close to her ear, she whispered, " _Hush_."

Alexandra and Nicholas were talking with Botkin. In a true testament to his skill and professionalism, despite his speech being inordinately peppered with yawns and his eyes being glazed, he managed to explain the situation with relative clarity.

"He has burst a blood vessel," Botkin said quietly, cleaning his spectacles, little good though it did his vision at the moment. "Probably from coughing."

"I _knew_ it was too cold in this house! Did I not say, Nicky, that–" Alexandra began, before Nicholas hushed her in rather a similar manner to how Olga had silenced Anastasia. The guards were listening, and it was dangerous for her to complain too much right then.

"We will monitor him closely," the doctor continued, clearing his throat and fighting back another yawn disguised as a sigh. "He is in a great deal of pain, but there is no reason to believe he won't pull through – not when he has had so much worse in the past."

Olga then had to try and pull Anastasia away from Alexei's bedside, prying their hands apart. "Mama will want to stay with him, let him go."

In the end, Dimitri had to step in and help – moving away from where he had been silently standing with one of Alexei's tutors who had come with them from the Catherine Palace – because Olga was getting nowhere; Anastasia wouldn't budge.

* * *

Back in their room, Olga checked the door to make certain Maria and Tatiana were still some distance behind. Then she urgently gestured for Anastasia to take off the soiled nightdress under the dressing-gown, promptly tossing it into their little stove.

Pooka, sleeping at the edge of Tatiana's cot (the warmest of the four, because it was nearest to the stove), woke up and barked twice before rolling over and falling back asleep.

Olga jumped, then steadied herself. "We'll talk when Mashka and Tatya fall asleep, just lie down and try to rest until then."

Maria and Tatiana each did a great deal of tossing and turning; the events of tonight – Alexei's sudden attack after being healthy for so long – weighed on their minds.

When their rolling and sighing stopped, Olga slipped over to Anastasia's cot and put her arms around her little sister.

"Now, darling, tell me what happened."

A sob escaped Anastasia's throat.

"I can _guess_ , of course – I know it's not your time."

"I'm sorry," she murmured through her sniffles, as if she couldn't find the strength to say anything else.

"Was it Gleb?"

She swallowed and shook her head, squeaking out a pitiful "No."

"I didn't think so," Olga admitted softly. "But I needed to be sure – he _does_ pay you too much attention."

"Please don't scold."

Olga stroked her hair. "No, no, I won't, darling, I won't."

"It's not fair," she whimpered.

"It was Dimitri, wasn't it?"

Anastasia froze, mid-sob. "How did you...?"

"Anastasie, it's _obvious_ you're in love with him," Olga sighed. "It's been obvious for a long time. I was afraid something like this might happen – I'd _hoped_ not...

"You realize you mustn't let it happen again. Once, we might be fortunate, and no one need be the wiser, but more than that – with all these guards around...

"And if you did get into trouble, even if it was hushed up, you remember what happened when Mashka had her tonsils taken out and wouldn't stop bleeding? It would be different for any of us in a palace, married, surrounded by royal doctors – but like _this_ , do you realize what could happen to you?"

She hadn't thought of that – but Olga was right, of course.

"You won't tell anyone, will you?"

"No, it's our secret, so long as it doesn't happen again."

"Thank you." She burrowed deeper into the covers, rolling over so that her forehead touched her sister's.

"But, darling, can I ask you something?"

She nodded, which Olga _felt_ more than properly _saw_.

"Why couldn't you have waited?"

Biting down onto her lower lip, vainly trying to steady it, Anastasia wept, "I was frightened there wouldn't be anything left to wait _for_. That things would be like this forever."


	13. Stoves & Pearl-Encrusted Eggs

_Stoves & Pearl-Encrusted Eggs_

"What is the meaning of this?"

Anastasia awoke, still in Olga's arms, to the sight of sunlight and guards pouring into their room.

At least six guards – two of which had gone over and flung the curtains wide in a manner even the boldest servant wouldn't have dared a year before without the Tsar's expressed consent.

Maria was still in her own cot, rubbing her eyes uncomprehendingly. It was Tatiana who had spoken and was currently standing in the middle of the room, her arms folded across her chest, furiously facing down the impertinent men in their dirty uniforms.

The guard who seemed to be in charge of this barge-in barely acknowledged Tatiana; he gestured instead, with his chin, in the direction of Anastasia and Olga. "Why are the two of you sharing a cot? If you can sleep two to a bed, there's no reason for this room to be cluttered with four cots. My men can hardly fit in here properly."

"They shouldn't be in here at all!" exclaimed Tatiana, looking – Anastasia couldn't help thinking – almost identical to their mother. She found it comforting, personally, seeing Mama's brave face in her second-oldest sister's; but she also knew such an obvious resemblance was not going to further endear the guards to their plight.

But, then, Olga was brave, too. Still clutching Anastasia's shoulders, she looked the officer straight in the eye. "My little sister was upset because of our brother's condition, sir. She was weeping most of the night, so I comforted her. Surely there is no regulation against comforting one's own family members in their times of need?"

Anastasia also noticed that Olga had swiftly straightened the front of her dressing-gown, remembering before she herself did that she was wearing nothing under it.

In spite of herself, she blushed when she realized one of the men in the room was Gleb, watching this whole scene unfold with a little too much interest. She didn't think _he_ could tell that she was wearing nothing under her dressing-gown – at least, she certainly _hoped_ not.

"Now, then, to business." The officer ignored Olga and cleared his throat, hemming and hawing to bring the bluster back to his former – slightly damaged – bravado. "One of my men was passing by this room last night–"

Anastasia thought she might be sick. Could a guard have overheard her whispering, when even her other two sisters had not? Did they _know_?

"–he described a strange odor." Here the officer shifted his gaze to a now bewildered Tatiana and gave her the hardest of stares. "What have you been burning in your stove that you shouldn't?"

"N-nothing," stammered poor Maria, sitting up properly now. "There might have been a smell, but we were all so worried about Alexei, we didn't think to investigate."

The officer nodded at Gleb. "Comrade."

Was it Gleb who had been snooping around and ratted them out? Was that why the officer addressed him? Somehow, Anastasia didn't think so. Gleb wouldn't have deliberately gone telling tales about their room. Unless he thought they were burning evidence of some family crime – something they could charge Nicholas and Alexandra with – and that it was his duty to speak up.

Oh, perhaps she didn't have even that much confidence in him after all!

At any rate, on the officer's orders, Gleb was opening the stove and drawing out a long, only half-burned piece of fabric.

Anastasia grimaced. The part of the nightdress still unsinged had the – somehow more visible than ever – bloodstain on it.

"Comrades Romanova, why have you been throwing your clothing into the stove?" The officer scowled, perhaps annoyed that the charred gauzy fabric wasn't anything useful or particularly condemning. "This house's delicate heating system is not a toy for your girlish amusements."

Tatiana looked stunned. Maria's expression was strangely unreadable for a girl who was usually so open with her emotions.

Once again, it was Olga to the rescue. "During my courses, I soiled my nightdress. It wasn't useful any longer, so I burned it."

Anastasia's heart swelled. Her sister had brought embarrassment upon herself to spare her. She felt bad for every time she had been cross or impatient with Olga growing up.

"You must remember, Comrade Olga Romanova, that you are not a princess any longer," the officer said next, his tone cold and hard. "You have no right to waste whatever does not please you. If a garment becomes soiled, you must wash it yourself. If a garment becomes stained or torn, I certainly hope you have the wits to mend it yourself. If you waste good clothing, you will not be readily provided with replacements like a spoiled child."

All the guards eyes were on Olga – watching her take the scolding – except for Gleb, who barely regarded Olga at all, as if she did not matter in the least. His focus remained fixed on Anastasia, leaving her to wonder how much he was guessing. She had the uncomfortable sensation that he somehow knew the stained, burned nightgown was not her eldest sister's.

"From now on," the officer finished, "your use of the stove will be more closely monitored to avoid future abuse of the heating. Your wood and coal usage will also be kept in a ledger so we can review it at the end of each month, or week, as need be. For now, my men and I will leave you to dress for breakfast."

With that, they filed out, Gleb last of all, and Anastasia let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding in.

* * *

That Alexei was too ill to come down to breakfast was a given, but Anastasia was a little surprised to see Dimitri's place empty, too.

When she finally brought herself to inquire about his absence as casually as possible, Alexandra distractedly told her he was upstairs with Alexei.

"Of course he is," Tatiana chimed in over the rim of her teacup, the moment her mother finished. Her tone was not malicious, but it did suggest Anastasia was a dunce for having to ask so obvious a question. "Keeping Alexei company is his _job_ , after all."

"I'm not very hungry." Anastasia pushed aside her plate. "May I be excused? I would like to visit Alexei."

Alexandra looked wary. "I don't think you should bother Baby just now. He has Dimitri there to fetch anything he needs, and you shouldn't be cluttering up his room while he's trying to rest."

" _Please_ , Mama?" She swallowed back the urge to snap that she was his favorite sister, not clutter. It would hurt more than one set of feelings at the table, and the excessive venom would be due to a guilty secret only Olga knew. She had to make it up to him – what she'd done, drugging Botkin in Alexei's time of need – somehow. It wasn't fair that such atonement should be withheld from her, along with whatever comfort she could impart. "I won't stay too long."

" _Do_ let her, Mama," Olga cut in. "She'll fret all day and be useless otherwise."

Anastasia mouthed a _thank you_ over at her eldest sister, who mouthed back, _You're welcome_.

In the end, Alexandra gave in and let her go, on the solemn promise she would stay no more than twenty minutes.

Anastasia rose from her seat, just barely remembering to push her chair back in behind her before dashing out of the room.

When she reached Alexei's room, she found him in a feverish slumber, his breakfast tray largely untouched.

Dimitri sat in a chair a few feet from the bed, slouched over with his face in his hands. He lifted it out of them when he heard her enter. "Hello."

Anastasia's smile was shaky. "Hello, Dimitri."

Easing himself up, he offered her the chair, notably placing it closer to the bed, knowing she would probably want to hold Alexei's hand again. "Here."

She was too exhausted to protest, taking the offered seat. In passing, she wondered if he knew about the guards' visit to their bedroom this morning. She wondered, too, how he felt about last night. Was he ashamed? Could the very thing she thought had brought down the wall between them have put up a new one? Or perhaps, it was guilt, over Alexei's condition, that did that.

She wasn't even sure if the new wall was of his making or her own.

It felt strange to be so awkward with someone who had touched every inch of her undressed body, who had pledged himself to her.

Her thoughts moved to how he had had to help pry her from Alexei's side last night. That must have been hard for him – playing the role of dutiful servant in front of her family like nothing had changed.

For a few long moments, he stood behind the chair. She assumed his gaze (and mind) was on Alexei, that he was not – at that particular moment – thinking about her at all.

Which was completely understandable, given the circumstances.

Then, an action that surprised her. His hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. He didn't have to say it would be all right, that he wasn't going anywhere; that gentle, unexpected touch said it for him.

He leaned forward, as Anastasia had seen her Papa do when whispering to her Mama many times before – though never from this angle. The chair creaked slightly under his leaning weight.

In her ear, he murmured, " _Dusha_."

Tears pricked her eyes at the endearment. Dusha. _Soul_.

Dimitri wasn't sentimental, so she'd never imagined him nicknaming her something like that. It was more intimate than her shortened name, and far deeper than if he'd merely used a weak variation on something borderline benign like _darling_.

She could not, of course, safely reply. The door was open, for one thing, and Alexei might wake for another.

All she could do was reach up and touch his hand as it risked lingering a moment longer on her shoulder.

After she let go, he said, "Hang on. I have something of yours," and walked over to the other side of the room, returning with her folded coat.

She'd forgotten about leaving it in his room, grateful he was returning it before her lack of coat became conspicuous in this icy house. "Thank you."

* * *

Anastasia quickly discovered that her others sisters were not taken in by Olga's story to the guards that morning.

Which might explain why Tatiana was distant. She discerned from the start that Anastasia and Olga were keeping secrets from her. And while it was all right for the Little Pair to have their personal intrigues, as long as it was nothing too serious, for Olga to be a confidant with one of them and refuse to tell her about it must have rankled worse than anything.

Still, Olga refused to comment, or deviate from her story, even when Tatiana pointed out in an angry hiss that she'd had her visit from Madame Becker already that month.

When she could drag the demure argument no further, she simply stated, "I'm taking care of it, Tatya, please let it go."

To which Tatiana fled their room in a huff, finding herself downstairs rather early for luncheon.

No one said a word to Maria, who sat on her cot knitting a scarf while Pooka kept trying to steal the ball of yarn she worked from.

When they found themselves alone, Olga exiting the room for luncheon as well, Maria gently reminded Anastasia she knew who had – and hadn't – borrowed that nightdress, which in actuality was hers.

" _Mashka_..." Anastasia held out her hands apologetically.

She shook her head and continued to knit, lifting the ball of yarn out of a whining Pooka's reach. "I won't say anything, I promise. You should have known you could trust me as much as Olga."

Sinking into a chair by the now barely-lit stove (thanks to the new regulations), Anastasia stared at one of the few blank spaces of wall left in their room. She wondered if her romantic escapade last night had risked more than Alexei's health, if it had cut into something deeper between her and her sisters.

But still, she could not fully regret it, adding to her guilt.

Knowing all she knew now, how wrong it was, how stupid she'd been, her heart still kept fluttering at the memories.

 _Dusha_ , he'd called her today.

The magical word seemed to be etched in gold script behind her eyelids, stuck like a the lyrics of a favorite song in her head, buzzing in her eardrums hours after it was uttered.

* * *

Aside from a few cold stares exchanged between the tense Romanov sisters, which were infrequent enough that Nicholas and Alexandra never took note of them, the next two days went by in such a way that the damning events of that night might as well never have happened.

Alexei was recovering, though he slept a lot. Nicholas insisted his girls – despite their worry over their brother – still go out for exercise when it was permitted, and they went up and down their snow mountain until he – or more frequently the guards – decided it was time they stopped and came back in.

Anastasia and Dimitri had no time to talk; he'd said little more than a morning greeting to her since their last tender exchange. There was something bothering him about Alexei, something he couldn't put into words. Once or twice, when he was alone in Alexei's room, he thought he caught the boy with one eye open, looking at him with suspicion, even rage.

He finally put it down to the boy simply being in a lot of pain. People often wore twisted expressions when they were hurting physically; Alexei was no exception to this.

It _couldn't_ be hatred or malice.

Not from someone who had always been so fond of him before.

Then, when the boy sat up, after those two days, Dimitri realized his rationalizations were nothing but wishful thinking.

Alexei _was_ angry with him, and he was about to learn why.

* * *

Alexei's English tutor, Mr. Gibbes, happened to be in the room, arranging some papers on a desk by the window. Alexandra said it was too soon, but Nicholas insisted his son keep up with his lessons as soon as he could sit up again with limited pain.

"Mr. Gibbes, I need to talk to Dimitri privately," Alexei announced, his hard tone sounding much older than his fifteen years. "Leave and come back later."

"Alexei, your father–"

"You can spare me ten minutes before we begin," the boy said. "Can you not?"

"You have ten minutes," Gibbes agreed, bowing out of old habit and leaving, perhaps to report Alexei's strange behavior to Nicholas, or else – more likely – to use this unexpected free moment to take a brief walk outside, guards permitting.

Dimitri had the embarrassing, childish urge to beg the man not to go, not to leave him alone with this furious ex-tsarevich.

"Is there something you want to tell me?" Alexei asked, the moment the door shut behind Gibbes.

 _No, not really._ "What do you mean?"

"When you were in here with Ana, while I was sick, you called her dusha." His sweat-dampened eyebrows rose simultaneously. "Care to explain that to me?"

How had Alexei possibly _heard_ that? He'd whispered it, for one thing. And Alexei had been asleep after hours of writhing in pain, for another.

"Alexei, it's an endearment, that's all." How much nonsense could he try to pass off on this discerning child? "Your sister was upset, I was trying to comfort her."

"You don't call my other sisters names like that."

"Alexei, you're being ridiculous."

" _Am_ I?" His expression was harder than Dimitri had ever seen it before. "The guards and my sisters talk around me like I'm not here when I'm recovering – did you know that?"

Dimitri winced involuntarily. Was there a right way to answer that question? Alexei didn't even phrase it as if it _were_ a question; it sounded more like a statement. What damning information had the boy overheard?

"I know about the nightdress in the stove, and that my sisters all already had their courses – Governess gets _extra_ bossy during that time, so I always know, I just don't say anything because it's _gross_."

Dimitri was silent. Alexei _had_ him, and he knew it. Much like his sisters, he understood a lot more than he generally let on.

"Then there's _this_..." Alexei's eyes were like two circles of blue fire – Dimitri suddenly had the uncomfortable notion that, if the revolution had never occurred, he might have made a terrifying tsar at times. "You had her coat. You gave it back to her in this room, right in front of me.

"Why did you have her coat, Dimitri?"

"Alexei, I can explain." No, he couldn't.

"Are you fornicating with my sister?" he demanded, point blank. "Don't lie to me."

The bluntness made him choke. If he said no, it would be a lie, and Alexei would know. If he said yes, he didn't even want to _think_ about Alexei's potential reaction. Besides, it had only happened once – no one was meant to find out. And it wasn't the ugly thing Alexei believed it was. It wasn't an act of cruelty, a violation.

"I _trusted_ you!" Alexei shouted as loud as he dared without attracting unwanted visits from the guards. His fists were clenched. "You were supposed to _protect_ her – you _promised_."

Dimitri knelt by the bed, so as to be on eye-level with the now trembling boy. "I never meant–"

"All this time, I thought you were on our side," Alexei went on, turning his head away. "But you're just like Derevenko – you only wanted to humiliate us, because you hated us all along."

"Alexei, that's not _true_ , how could you ever think that?" Why would he be here, in bloody _exile_ with them, if that were true?

He thought he heard a muffled sob. So _that_ was why Alexei wasn't looking at him now – to hide his tears.

"You're no better than the guards, are you?"

"Alexei, _please_."

His face puffy, Alexei rolled over and stared at Dimitri for a long moment. "Get out of my sight."

Dimitri stood, heading for the door.

In a way, he was glad Alexei told him to leave. Another few moments of this painful conversation and Alexei might not be the only one in tears by the time Gibbes returned. How would he ever have explained that?

Sure enough, just as he was leaving, Gibbes entered, whistling lightly. If he'd had his walk, he'd plainly enjoyed it.

"Gibbes, don't let him leave."

Dimitri's heart stopped. Was Alexei going to forgive him?

"He took something of mine."

He froze. Every instinct was telling him to run, telling him he was in serious trouble, but he was rooted in place.

"Check his coat pocket."

Gibbes reached into the large woolen pocket on the left side of Dimitri's greatcoat – the one that would have been completely accessible to Alexei while Dimitri knelt by the bed.

When he drew his hand out, Gibbes held a large Faberge egg. One of the few the family had been able to bring with them, miraculously having escaped near theft by several guards at this point. Pale pink in color, it was covered in tiny pearls cut to look like lilies of the valley. Beautiful, heavy, and obscenely expensive. Dimitri had seen the Romanov children playing with this egg a few years before, though they weren't technically allowed to. He knew a gold button would reveal portraits of Olga and Tatiana if pressed.

This was not only a family treasure, it was one of Alexandra's most prized possessions. He was a dead man.

If Alexei had literally plunged a knife into his stomach and twisted, the resulting pain would have been less than this setup.

"You should be ashamed of yourself," Gibbes told him, his face a mirror of Dimitri's own horror.

And he was – but for completely unrelated reasons.


	14. The Crucible

_The Crucible_

_I'm_ dead, thought Dimitri. _Deader than dead._

From Alexei's room, Gibbes had taken him directly to the former tsar and tsarina sitting in the common room with the few remaining members of their suite.

He stood before them now – nearly shivering – with no coat. Gibbes was holding both his coat and the allegedly pilfered Faberge egg.

The last time he'd been this frightened in front of these people, he'd been a little boy who sneaked into a party, ate too much cottage cheese, and stumbled upon Alexei's secret. It seemed cruel of fate to bring him back full circle. Cruel, but not surprising. The irony was almost _too_ on the nose. If he'd read something like this in a novel, he probably would have snorted dismissively at the painfully obvious cliche.

In real life, though, it was a living nightmare. He had no idea what was going to happen to him now.

Nicholas had no authority over the guards, but he probably still had the right to dispose of his servants. If they sent him away now, in the middle of Tobolsk, where would he go? Maybe the guards would just shoot him, one less loyalist on the streets. Not to mention one less mouth for them to feed. One less person to keep warm in these freezing temperatures...

Alexandra looked furious as she listened to Sydney Gibbes explain his discovery of Dimitri's act of thievery. Her eyes darted from the tutor to Dimitri, then to the glistening lily-covered egg.

Nicholas' face showed no emotion. He looked mostly at Gibbes, but occasionally shifted his eyes to Dimitri.

Of the girls, only Olga was present at first. But – as Gibbes began to accuse Dimitri – she quickly dropped the pair of breeches (possibly Alexei's) she'd been mending and ran from the room. No one stopped her; they were too fixated on the matter at hand.

When Olga returned, Anastasia was with her, Maria panting a short ways behind them, trying to see what was happening.

Nicholas waited until Gibbes was finished speaking, then grunted, "Have you anything to say for yourself, Dimitri?"

What could he _say_? That Nicholas' son framed him? Slipped the egg into his pocket as he crouched by the bed to talk to him? Surely the ex-tsar would want to know _why_ Alexei would do something so vicious to a childhood friend. And Dimitri could hardly tell him he'd deflowered his daughter, Alexei's favorite sister.

"I-" he began shakily. "I didn't steal the egg. I don't know how it got into my pocket." Of course he did – Alexei _put it there_. To pay him back for what he viewed as the ultimate betrayal of trust.

"A likely story," Gibbes growled, his tone dripping with disgust. To Alexandra, he added, "You should have seen Alexei – he was _weeping_ , Madam. Weeping as befits a boy half his age. Dimitri's thievery has broken his heart. Would the boy cry so over a mere misunderstanding?"

Alexandra's eyes darkened. "You were Sunbeam's _friend_."

Nicholas was more cautious in his judgment, frowning deeply at the man who'd once been a boy he'd practically raised among his own children. "Something about this does not add up."

"We should never have trusted him, Nicky." Alexandra shook her head, dropping a pair of knitting needles into her lap with a faint _ping_. "I knew all along he was unworthy of associating with our children."

 _All along?_ Was everything he'd ever done for the royal family worth nothing to this heartless woman? He had never – even in jest – called Alexandra a German spy or the _Nemka_ , as others – some less than loyal servants included – did.

Over the years, he had dedicated his life to making sure Alexei was always being taken care of. Aside from playing with the boy and keeping tabs on him, he'd carried him when he couldn't walk; he'd massaged his legs when Devervenko refused during their imprisonment within the Catherine Palace; he'd sat up nights with him long after the other servants had gone to sleep; he'd spent hours holding linen cloths to Alexei's nostrils when he had relentless nosebleeds.

With one dismissive sentence, all that suddenly meant _nothing_.

He had made only one mistake during all these years. Falling in love with the tsar's youngest daughter. And he'd tried not to – dear God, he'd _tried_.

The real tragedy was that, as soon as the words left the former Tsarina's lips, Dimitri suddenly realized that – while he had never forgotten his place, as a servant – Alexandra, distant and regal as she may always have been, was still the closest thing he'd ever had to a mother.

And, to her, he was just another person who helped Alexei, then heartlessly betrayed the family. First Rasputin (ugly as _that_ had turned out), now him. He was nothing but an accidental means to her end. A means to watch over after her _actual_ son.

Alexandra's last comment was apparently too much for Anastasia, whose face had turned a furious shade of red and – it seemed – was only kept from flinging herself into the middle of the room by Olga's tightening grip on her elbows.

She spoke _for_ Anastasia, to avoid the potentially damning outburst that would surely have exploded from her youngest sister otherwise. "Mama, that's uncharitable. He's been a good servant to us for many years. And he gave up his entire life to live in this place with us – he didn't _have_ to do that."

"Don't talk back to your mother, Olga," Nicholas sighed offhandedly.

Gibbes said, "My recommendation is that you send him away – have the guards escort him out of this house by sundown."

"That is too risky. With this unstable government, they might just as likely have him killed than waste money on his transportation."

"An execution would serve a thief right," Gibbes argued.

Anastasia swayed, and might have fallen into a faint if Olga hadn't continued to hold her up.

"No," said Nicholas, his tone wearied. "I won't have more blood on my hands – that's the one good thing about not being tsar anymore. They can't blame me every time something goes wrong."

They could and _did_ still blame him, whatever Nicholas thought, but Dimitri wasn't about to tell him that. Let the poor man hold his delusions, if they gave him peace.

"As I said before," he went on, "something about this doesn't feel right. I'm greatly perturbed and wish to get to the bottom of this mess before casting my judgment."

"Nicky, he has treated Baby appallingly!" Alexandra protested. "He doesn't deserve to sit at our table with us after stealing. Or to sleep under our roof." Her glare hardened so much Dimitri thought her face might just crack from the strain. "Furthermore, he has also robbed _me_. That is _my_ egg – a gift from you, Nicky, during better times."

"You are right about that," Nicholas conceded.

Dimitri thought he might be sick. There were tiny pinpricks of light flashing behind his eyes and the room seemed to swirl. He prayed he wouldn't faint in front of these people. There was no telling where he might be when he regained consciousness.

"If his presence during this difficult time bothers you, Sunny," he continued, "I can speak to the head officer about him sleeping in the guardhouse until this is resolved."

Like, for instance, with a bunch of guards who probably hated him for his association with the royal family.

That sounded about as fun as getting pins stuck into his eyeballs.

Stupidly, considering that the punishment could yet be far worse than a change in rooming arrangements, he already missed the room he shared with Botkin.

* * *

Alexei was surprised when, instead of Alexandra or one of the servants, it was his Papa who woke him early the following morning.

"Alexei, there is something I want you to decide."

He sat up as straight as he could manage. "Yes, Papa, what is it?"

"What do you think should happen to Dimitri for stealing that Faberge egg?" Nicholas stood with his hands behind his back, his voice calm and his face expressionless. "Shall we send him away?"

Away would be good – he couldn't keep making fools of them if he was sent away. Still Alexei's stomach felt bitter and he tasted gall in his mouth. "Yes, Papa, let's do that. Send him away."

"I don't know what would happen to him if he were dismissed," he warned him. "He might starve, or be killed. Remember he has no family, no money. He is of no importance to the new government, either.

"Mr. Gibbes seemed to think such a fate would be only what he deserved. But, Alexei, he is _your_ friend – you tell me what you think."

Pushed on by a sudden streak of stubbornness, Alexei opened his mouth to say he didn't care, that Gibbes was probably right.

But Nicholas was one step ahead. He held up a hand, holding back his son's next words. "Before you answer, my child, I have something I want you to look at." With that, he produced two photographs from his breast pocket.

In one, taken years ago, Dimitri and Alexei were sitting together on a balcony at Livadia. In the other – far more recent – Dimitri stood, completely bald-headed with Alexei and Maria, and a short-haired Anastasia. He looked like one of them in that picture; you couldn't tell which was the servant and which were the royal children.

Alexei turned away from the grainy black-and-white memories. "I don't want to look at these, Papa."

Nicholas dropped the photographs into his son's lap. "Before you make a choice, before you decide what you have to say to me about what's happened, you _will_ look at those photographs."

Involuntarily, Alexei felt his gaze shifting downwards. It was like a punch in the stomach, seeing Dimitri not as the monster he believed he was now but, rather, as the friend he'd been before.

Could he condemn one of the few friends to stand by him and his family when their fortunes changed overnight?

Alexei tried to remind himself that Dimitri had only stayed on with them because of a perverted interest in his sister, but couldn't quite muster up the blind rage he'd felt when he slipped the Faberge egg into his pocket.

Why couldn't Papa just punish Dimitri _himself_? That would have been so much simpler, so much easier.

"Some hour today would be preferred, Alexei," Nicholas prodded, taking a gold watch from his pants pocket. "I do have other matters to attend to, and I'm sure the guards don't want to house and feed Dimitri with them forever."

Bile burning his throat, Alexei whispered, "Dimitri didn't steal that egg, Papa."

"Oh?" Nicholas raised an eyebrow.

"That's right, I gave it to him," he invented. "For staying with me while I was sick."

Nicholas gave him a disbelieving look. "Then, my son, why did you tell Gibbes he stole it?"

"It was a mistake," Alexei mumbled to his bedclothes, unable to make his voice very clear, overcome with uncertainty and shame. "I was in pain, so I forget. I just forgot, that's all."

"That egg was not yours to give," Nicholas reminded him, taking a step nearer. "It belonged to your Mama – you know that."

"Yes, Papa, but I forgot that too."

"Are you telling me the truth?"

"Yes."

Nicholas knelt by the bed and took his son's hand. "Then, I will tell you how we can correct your forgetful mistake."

"How?"

"We will have Dimitri brought back, with apologies for the dreadful night he must have had."

"Yes," Alexei agreed, his voice shaky but stronger. "All right."

"Since you promised him a gift, and I'm afraid the egg is out of the question, I suppose – If you speak the truth now – I will have to make good on your promise." He swung the open gold watch by its chain in front of Alexei's face. "I will give your friend my watch, with your apology." Snapping the lid shut over the watch's crystal face, he added, "This was precious to me, though not so precious I would not sacrifice it for the honor of one of my children. But I don't wish to part with it based on a lie – be certain you tell the truth now."

Alexei nodded, as vigorously as he dared. "Dimitri didn't steal from me – I was confused."

"Very well, then." Nicholas cleared his throat. "We shall have the matter resolved by midday and say no more about it."

Sobbing as he tossed back the bedclothes, Alexei threw his arms around his father's neck, embracing him.

They stayed like that for a good while before Nicholas pulled away, smoothed back his son's hair, planted a kiss on his forehead, and left the room without another word.

* * *

"How was your night in the guardhouse?" Anastasia asked, straightening the cuffs of her woolen gloves.

She and Dimitri were walking behind the snow mountain, a few feet away from where Tatiana, Olga, and Maria were wheeling a particularly pale and clammy-looking Alexei (only permitted out for the remaining quarter-hour) down the short path from the house to the fence. He grumbled a bit about hating being confined to his wheelchair, but otherwise seemed rather lost in thought. He'd glanced over at Dimitri and Anastasia twice, without emotion, but said nothing to either of them as of yet.

"Hush, Baby," Tatiana reprimanded. "At least you are not confined to it as often as poor Mama is to hers."

He grunted in reply, then shifted the blanket in his lap.

" _Well_?" Anastasia repeated, when Dimitri didn't answer. "Was it that bad? How did it go?"

Dimitri gave her a withering glance, eyebrows down. "I basically had a sleepover with Gleb and company – how do you _think_ it went?"

"From your melodious tone of voice, I think you had a ball," Anastasia gibed, punching his arm. "And it was wicked of you not to invite me when I was so bored in my room."

That broke the ice, forcing him to crack a smile. "Well, first, I ate a potato that smelled like your Uncle Vanya, while the guards made fun of my table manners – namely, that I _had_ some." You didn't dine with the royal family almost every night and not pick up a few things.

Sucking in her cheeks and bunching up her gloved hands like she was holding the top of a mutton fork in one and the bow of a cello in the other, Anastasia did an exaggerated impression of Dimitri sawing a potato. Or perhaps a log. It was hard to tell.

" _Yes_ ," he laughed. "Like that, but less impressive."

She clapped her hands together and flung her arms wide. "All hail Dimitri, chieftain of all gallant potato eaters!"

"Not funny." He forced a scowl, though really he wanted to laugh again. "Then, I got one of Boris' toenail clippings in my right eye – _charming_ man."

"And _then_ ," Anastasia sighed, her mouth forming a dramatic pout, "you and Gleb stayed up all night, gossiping like schoolgirls."

He gave her the stink-eye. " _Hardly_."

Her voice grew quavery, serious. "It could have been so much worse, you know."

Dimitri groaned. "I know."

"I can't believe Alexei..." She trailed off.

" _I_ can. The boy was hurting – in his place, I might have done the same thing."

"You wouldn't have."

"You don't know that."

For the briefest of moments, she took his hand, squeezing it. "Yes, I do."

His eyes drifted up to the sky, settling unexpectedly on a flap of gliding white. "Hey, is that–?"

Anastasia's mouth dropped open. "I think so! Quick, fetch Alexei and bring him up our snow mountain – you'll see better from there, and he'll know for sure."

As if nothing had changed between them, Dimitri ran over to Alexei's wheelchair and lifted the boy out of it (ignoring Tatiana's confused protest), carefully carrying him up the slippery hill.

When they stopped at the top, he pointed at what he'd seen. "Anyone you know?"

Alexei's face colored vividly. " _Bartok_!"

"We thought it might be."

Alexei swallowed. " _We_ – you and Ana."

"Yes."

"I see...

"Hey, what's that pink thing, flying close to Bartok?"

"I believe that's another bat – a female, probably, since it's smaller."

"His mate?"

"Perhaps."

"I suppose that's only natural," Alexei mused, waving up at the bat, wondering if he could see him. "I'm glad they let him go, that they didn't kill him or anything."

"Me too."

"Dimitri?

"Yes?"

"You know I don't hate you, right?"

"Nah." Dimitri smirked tightly. "How could I possibly think that after your extremely generous gift? Thank you for the gold watch, by the way."

Alexei had the decency to blush. "I'm cold and Bartok's flown too far to see." He stuffed his hands under his armpits. "Take me back down."

* * *

The next morning, at breakfast, the guards entered and announced that the snow mountain would be knocked down.

Five sets of forks clinked as the disappointed Romanov children dropped their silverware and gaped in disbelief. Even Tatiana – who seemed to like the snow mountain the least of them – looked bitterly disappointed.

"But _why_?" asked Maria, appealing to Boris – stationed only a foot away from her place at the table – despite the empty expression on his face. "What harm does it do?"

It was Gleb who answered. There was some pity in his eyes, but his posture was rigid with formality. "Unfortunately, Comrade Romanova, your servant was seen by concerned citizens carrying Alexei up there – several reports of them pointing and gesturing at something white in the sky have been made. The fear that they were signaling a Tsarist resistance has caused some unease in the town."

Anastasia blinked back her tears, staring at her blurred plate. _She_ had been the one to tell Dimitri to take Alexei up the hill to see Bartok, knowing he'd be excited, and likely wave.

This newest loss, she felt, was as much her fault as the fact that their stove usage was now so limited.

Why did it seem as though everything she did or thought these days made things worse – in both small ways and large ones – for the people she loved? Would she _ever_ learn to stop being such a silly, impulsive girl?


	15. Services

_Services_

Anastasia fastened the top button on her off-white blouse and reached down to smooth her cream-colored skirt. She felt an uncomfortable tug on her lower back.

"Here, darling, hold up a minute," laughed Olga, coming up behind her and gently pulling the back of the blouse down properly. "You had a hook on your corset stuck to your blouse again."

"My _heavens_!" Tatiana commented from the other side of the room. "You'd never know this was our same little sister who used to eat melting chocolate sweeties with her opera gloves still on, would you?"

"Don't tease, Tatya," Anastasia sighed, pulling away from Olga and running a brush through her already smooth hair. " _You're_ the one who always said I should make more of an effort."

"It simply seems a funny time to start, that's all," Tatiana said with a callous shrug.

Anastasia willed herself not to feel too annoyed with her second-oldest sister. After all, Tatiana couldn't understand that this day was something different to her than it was to the rest of them.

Luckily, Maria's natural sweetness rose up to save the day as she joined in the conversation, pulling back her own hair with an only slightly frayed silk ribbon, fashioning it into a neat bow. "It _is_ the first time we've been allowed out since we came here – I think we're _all_ a bit excited."

"Yes, of course we are," Tatiana conceded impatiently, shooting her two younger sisters a stern look. "But I hope you haven't forgotten we're going to services at a church, not a _party_."

Sucking her teeth, Anastasia focused on coiling her hair into a neat bun at the back of her neck. Little wisps kept persisting in poking out every time she thought she finally had it right.

Normally, she wouldn't care, but this was almost akin to her wedding day. The closest thing she might ever get to one, at any rate.

If they were finally all going to church, she could pray for blessings on her union with Dimitri. Something that – if she was being honest with herself – she needed to admit hadn't been especially blessed _so far_ , only leading them to a rolling snowball of unforeseen trouble. But this morning might just be the light at the end of the tunnel.

God was letting Mama's prayers that they attend services be heard, even if he had – Anastasia thought, rather sacrilegiously – taken his sweet time going about it, so maybe he'd listen to _her_ prayers now, too.

She'd pray for their continued safety as a family, for the guards to stop being so harsh with Mama and Papa, for Alexei to stop looking so sour and distant all of the time, and for God to take into account that she considered herself _married_ to the man she'd given herself to – so she hadn't meant to be sinful.

It had never occurred to Anastasia that she might grow vain when she actually _wanted_ a man's attention. Not long ago, she'd have thought herself well above such behavior. She used to mercilessly taunt her sisters for that – even for just quickly trying to spruce themselves up if a sailor on the Standart they thought was handsome walked by.

Now she realized she was just as bad, if not worse. Her thoughts, which were supposed to be on the holy matter of church-going, kept drifting to what Dimitri would think of her outfit. She wondered if she should have maybe worn the blue dress he gave her. He always did seem to notice when she wore that one.

But, no, that was growing a bit too shabby for church – mainly because she wore it so often.

Besides, she liked what she had on. It suited her, made her look more grown up and less childish. So many of her other clothes made her look like a dumpling.

Her neck looked bare, though, and she debated over a modest, milk-colored scarf for a bit before deciding to wear the pearls Maria got her for her eighteenth birthday. If the guards wanted to gape and whisper about how 'lavish' it was, or plot to steal it, to hell with them. She hadn't worn anything other than her _Together In Paris_ necklace in ages, and that wouldn't match this ensemble.

She had no more than a few seconds to admire the way the pearls set off the creamy-colored clothing and congratulate herself on her success regarding the herculean task of looking less like a waif and more like a lady, however, before Tatiana tisked, "Anastasia Nicholaevna, are you wearing lipstick and rouge? Mama won't like that."

Moaning with exasperation, she jackknifed forward and pressed her forehead against the mirror.

* * *

Anastasia's appearance – following the arrival of the four sisters in the common room, where they were to wait for the guards to escort them to church – caused a stir with nearly everyone _except_ the person she wanted it to.

Alexei commented that she looked funny, not like herself at all, and that he hated the change. "You look like a trollop," he finished with enough venom to bring his sister to tears, though he didn't mean to.

"Alexei Nicholaevich, you've never even _seen_ a trollop!" Olga scolded.

"And it's a beastly thing to say," Maria added, putting her hand consolingly on Anastasia's shoulder. "Mama ought to make you apologize."

Even Tatiana agreed. "Mama, did you hear what he just said?"

But Alexandra was too busy critically examining Anastasia's new look for herself. "You're far too young to wear your hair up like that."

"Mama, she's over sixteen," Olga protested. "And it's hardly _up_ – it's on her neck."

Ignoring her eldest daughter, Alexandra handed her youngest a handkerchief embroidered with tiny yellow daffodils. "Wipe that lipstick off your face. Do try to show some respect for the Lord's day."

Tatiana turned her head and mouthed, _I_ told _you_.

After sticking her tongue out at her smug sister, Anastasia began sneaking glances over at Dimitri, hoping he'd comment, or at least smile and lift his brow at her.

But he didn't – he just sat like a dumb ox at Alexei's side. _Infuriating man._

Nicholas lit a fresh cigarette, deciding to stay out of the ladies' debate. Perhaps he was wondering why it was taking the guards so long to show up and escort them out of this tense situation. Then again, they never _did_ seem to be on time any _other_ day. Why should this one be different?

Gleb, Boris, and two other guards eventually entered, crowding their broad shoulders through the narrow framework.

Maria smiled shyly at Boris, who nodded nonchalantly then turned away.

After greeting the former Tsar, Gleb's eyes went to the row of – at the moment – sour-faced former grand duchesses.

Maria was growing upset that Boris wouldn't look at her; Anastasia was in her own nasty sulk because of Alexei's comment and the fact that Dimitri wouldn't look at _her_ ; Olga was overtired; and Tatiana made a practice of always being rather stony around Gleb – their mutual disdain for what the other each represented politically never faded.

When Gleb's gaze stopped on Anastasia, he exhaled, "Comrade Romanova, words fail me."

"Promises, promises," Dimitri growled under his breath, sneering at Gleb.

Suddenly in comradeship with his old friend again, mainly due to their shared dislike of this particular guard, Alexei grumbled, "Yes, the day _he_ has no words, the sky will be purple with orange spots."

Gleb ignored their exchange, doubtless making them rather uncomfortable, as if they were only ghosts talking in a room of the living.

The way he continued to stare at her, Anastasia had the feeling that – if Gleb were a sailor or court member instead of a guard charged with keeping them all in line – he would have taken her hand and kissed it. This was – more or less – the desired effect of her change in appearance, just from the wrong _person_.

Things only got more tense when Alexandra cut in to ask if they could proceed down the hallway to the front door now to avoid missing the services altogether.

Gleb paled slightly, finally taking his eyes off Anastasia. "I'm sorry, I was led to believe you had already been told."

"Been told what?" Tatiana demanded, folding her arms across her chest.

Maria blurted, "Aren't we going? Is _that_ it? They have decided we cannot go after all?"

"Don't be absurd, darling, of course we are–" Alexandra began, in a near-snort, before Gleb's silence told them all that Maria's guess was not far from the truth. "What? But _no_! We were promised services today. All the children are in their best... Surely it..." Her voice choked off.

Gleb might not have liked Alexandra much, but even he appeared sorry for her in this faltering, almost pleading state. "It has been discussed, and the conclusion is that it may be too dangerous to allow you all to leave, even for the morning. However, we've set up a makeshift chapel downstairs, and a priest shall be here to listen to confessions within the hour, so it's really–"

Whatever he was about to add was lost, drowned out by the sound of Alexandra's broken sobs as her daughters and husband tried vainly to console her.

* * *

The pathetic service before the unconsecrated altar – attended by both the disappointed family and the largely indifferent guards – were somber and dreary. The priest turned out to be senile with a speech impediment, making anything he said difficult to follow.

None of the girls had the heart to smile, except for Anastasia – just once – when Dimitri (paying the first attention he'd given her all day) tapped her on the shoulder to point to a rounded wax candle that had melted in an odd way, dripping only from one side, leaving an awkward crack rising at the bottom that vaguely resembled a voluminous backside.

It _was_ funny, and Anastasia had to clamp her hand over her mouth to hold back a snort of laughter. This was made more difficult by the fact that Dimitri's shoulders were shaking, revealing his own continued amusement, which only made her want to laugh _with_ him.

One sharp look from Tatiana, whose red-rimmed eyes mirrored their Mama's, immediately sobered her up, however, and the mood resumed its dour tone.

Still, Anastasia wished she had her camera with her – to take a picture of that candle. She doubted she would ever see one melt into that exact shape again.

* * *

After the disastrous service concluded, the Romanov children wanted to go outside, but it was not permitted that day. Instead, they found themselves meandering off to different parts of the house.

In the girls' bedroom, Maria and Tatiana were sewing a length of ribbon onto the bottom of an old skirt they were trying to hem; Olga was with Nicholas and Alexandra in the Common room.

Anastasia found herself playing cards with Alexei in his room. This was the first time they had really been alone together since the incident involving his framing Dimitri, and she was still miffed with him over calling her a trollop earlier. Alexei had a way of adding double meanings into a lot of things he said, and – after thinking it over – she figured out it was more than just wearing lipstick or the change in hairstyle that had made her brother insult her today.

"Dimitri says I was unkind to you this morning," Alexei commented after a couple hands.

"Does he?" Anastasia's tone was icy as she picked up the cards and began to shuffle for a new round. She hated being this way with him, since they'd always been so close, but it was hard not to be, considering his recent behavior.

"He said your feelings were hurt, that he could tell. _Were_ they?"

"I suppose, a little." She fiddled with the pearls she still wore at her throat.

"For what it is worth, I _am_ sorry, Ana."

"Sorry for what you said, or why you said it?" This was the most candid she could be with him, and she prayed no one walked into the room before he answered.

"Both, I suppose."

"You're not a cruel boy, Alyosha," she reminded him. "At least, you've never been cruel to _me_ before. What changed?"

Alexei shook his head. "Everything – you especially. Dimitri, too, he's been different ever since..."

Setting the cards down on the coverlet and tucking her legs up under her, Anastasia took her brother's hand. "Anything that happens between me and Dimitri doesn't change _us_ , Alyosha."

He swallowed, holding back tears. "Do you love him?"

"Very much."

"Are you happy?"

"As happy as we _can_ be here."

"Will you marry him someday?"

She didn't think she could explain how – in her heart, at least – they already _were_ married, so she simply nodded. "I hope to."

"Will you leave us all – you and him both – when you do?" he sniffed.

Her face softened. "Is _that_ what's bothering you?"

"It is _part_ of it," he admitted, gnawing on his lower lip.

"That might be a long way off," Anastasia whispered consolingly. "We don't know how long we have to stay here, you understand. And if..." She stopped. She couldn't keep thinking like that. "And _when_ things do change, we'll still see each other often."

Tears streamed down Alexei's face.

"Oh, Alyosha, what _is_ it?"

He flung himself forward into her open arms the way he used to when he was very small. "Seeing each other _often_ isn't the same as seeing each other _every day_!"

They stayed there like that, embracing and comforting each other until they were long overdue to go downstairs for dinner.


	16. The Second Revolution

_The Second Revolution_

" _Ouch_!" Anastasia cried out as a pin pricked her leg.

"If you would only _hold still_ for a moment, you aggravating child!" snapped Alexandra, as if her daughter were eight instead of eighteen, pulling the pin out again. "You squirm so much I can't finish properly."

Anastasia was standing on a stool in the middle of the common room while her mother tried to adjust the length of a winter cloak for her.

"I've only grown two inches, Mama," she protested. "Surely it can't be so difficult to add just two inches of fabric without–" A sigh escaped. It was no good arguing with her mother; she didn't know why she even tried. "I'm sorry, Mama, I'll be more still."

"There's a good girlie," Alexandra said, her tone softening. "Bend your knee a little, love."

A snicker came from across the room, where Alexei and Dimitri sat looking over one of the family albums. By this point, they knew every detail of every picture by heart, but it was better than sitting there and staring at their hands, the only other alternative at times.

"She _has_ to be good now," Alexei commented teasingly. "The guards will come running in with their pistols drawn if she doesn't pipe down."

"Well, _naturally_ her screaming will attract the guards," Dimitri added, smirking and stretching his arms behind his head so he could lean back on his palms. "She's normally so _demure_."

Glaring at him over her shoulder, Anastasia mouthed that she was going to claw his eyes out if he didn't shut up.

 _What a temper!_ he mouthed back in mock-horror.

"Anastasie, your manner is _appalling_ , please stop making faces at the servants and face me properly." Alexandra exhaled impatiently.

How Dimitri had suddenly become 'the servants' in plural, Anastasia had no idea. She assumed it was Alexandra's way of deflecting her hidden embarrassment over the resent thievery accusations. She couldn't quite pretend they never happened, and she was always convinced – whatever Nicholas or Alexei himself said – that her son was covering up for him when he claimed to have forgotten giving him that egg. Still, she must have had _some_ pity and fondness for the boy who had grown up alongside her son – she just didn't show it well. She may even have felt remorse for some of the comments she'd made. But, of course, she would never bring herself to admit it.

Yet, she made no complaint to his rejoining their group – he was one of them again, but perhaps more like furniture than family.

Despite the fact that the children were closer – and more personable – with Dimitri than Alexandra, Anastasia had recently noticed something strange while snooping through her siblings' diaries.

None of them mentioned him by name.

Tatiana's occasionally referred to him as 'Alexei's companion'.

_Alexei was weak today, his companion had to carry him down the stairs._

Olga and Alexei sometimes offhandedly referred to him simply as _D_.

_D. sat by Alexei at breakfast._

_D. had to push me in my chair today, my leg is too swollen to walk – it was not fun._

Maria's had little to no personal mention of him at all – usually lumping him in with the rest of the remaining servants.

But in addition to the countless drawings she'd done of him, there were very few pages of Anastasia's diary on which Dimitri did not feature. It had never occurred to her before that he did not feature elsewhere – that if her own diary were to get lost, there might not be much record left of one of the most important people in her life.

For some reason, this new thought saddened her, and made her more irritable with her mother's dismissal of him. He was more than just a chair, or a pair of arms to carry Alexei. When was the last time any of them – even she herself, if she were being honest – had asked Dimitri about his life before he discovered Alexei's hemophilia? Or thought about what he would have done with his life if he hadn't selflessly thrown in his lot with theirs? Had they _ever_?

Would he be a worker in a fish factory, or a street sweeper in Saint Petersburg? Would he have fled Russia for some country less oppressive? Maybe he would be in Paris now. Or America. New York City, perhaps.

It was at that moment that the door banged open, startling them. It turned out to be Nicholas, with a handful of guards and the superior officer, whose look could be described as weary at best.

 _Papa_ looked weary, too, but he usually _was_ these days – that was nothing new...

"Madam," the superior officer said, removing his hat. "I have come to say goodbye." His eyes drifted from Alexandra to Alexei, then briefly to Anastasia teetering as she shifted from foot to foot on her stool. "Goodbye to you as well, children. You have been very brave and good for your parents – I hope you know that." He nodded at Anastasia again. "Little girl, I hope you are not still cross about that time you signaled from the window and were fired upon, and that we can part on friendly terms."

She bristled more at being called 'little girl' than at the memory of almost being shot in the face.

"What has happened?" Alexei blurted, unable to contain himself, nearly bouncing off the couch. "Are we being set free?"

"No, my son," Nicholas answered gravely. "There has been..." He stopped and wrung his shaking hands. "There has been another revolution. The government that sent us here is no longer in power – Russia is now run by the Bolsheviks. They intend to send a Bolshevik officer to oversee us here."

* * *

Sure enough, less than a week later, a man who called himself 'The Commissar' arrived. During the time between the superior officer's leaving and Commissar's arrival, the guards were – as a whole – very slovenly without supervision, and seemed to forget they were supposed to be doing anything other than lazily pointing a gun in one direction or the other every now and again.

Only Gleb and a couple others retained the former routine and standards, such as they were.

Interestingly, most of the guards – other than Gleb and those two others, who might have been sucking up to Gleb – were dismissed and replaced with men who had arrived with Commissar. Perhaps the rest of the lot were smarter than they'd looked and had known they were likely to lose their jobs, seeing no point in exerting themselves in the useless eleventh hour.

Boris was one of the men let go, much to Maria's dismay. She cried for a whole night when he left without even saying goodbye.

"I wanted to tell him to be careful, wherever he goes next," she sobbed into her pillow as her sisters patted her on the back the night his absence was first noticed. "With his bad leg he _has_ to be, you know. And I never even got to bid him farewell, or give him something to remember me by! Now we'll never see each other again."

The morning following the commissar's first appearance, he ordered the entire Romanov family to assemble in the common room for what he called 'inspection'.

"Inspecting what?" Tatiana had wondered aloud, sounding rather peeved as she dressed and brushed her hair. "He knows we are all here! He saw us last evening at dinner."

"That's not entirely true, Tatya," Olga reminded her. "He did not see Alexei. Dimitri served him a light supper upstairs because of his fever."

Tatiana crossed herself. "Surely he is not going to make a boy as sickly as our poor Sunbeam has been these last couple days come down the stairs. _Godless fiend_."

"It's all right," Maria sniffled through a reddened nose still stuffed up from crying over Boris again earlier. "Dimitri will carry him – he won't have to walk."

"He should be in bed regardless," she snapped. "How else do you expect him to recover? This anxiety is not good for him – or for Mama, either, for that matter."

Anastasia was silent as she finished combing her own hair and set the brush down on the trunk by her cot. "I'm frightened."

"Why, darling?" Olga asked, rushing to her side.

"Alexei has a sixth sense of things," Anastasia explained, her voice shaking; "he always has. Last night, when I went to visit him before bed, he said we were going to be separated after Commissar spoke to us today. That he _hated_ Commissar for splitting our family up."

"He said that to me, too, Anastasie, but I believe it might have been his fever talking." Olga patted and stroked her arm consolingly. "When I asked what he meant, and how he knew, he couldn't tell me."

"He never can explain these things – that doesn't mean he's not right."

"He hasn't _met_ Commissar yet," Tatiana cut in. "He probably only overheard Papa fretting and has muddled his own thoughts with the words of others."

" _Come_." Olga took Maria's hand, who linked arms with Anastasia, who in turn grasped Tatiana's hand on the other side. "Commissar will be furious if we take too long – whether Alexei is right about him or not, he is not a man I'd like to be on the wrong side of. _That much_ I know."

* * *

Commissar walked up and down the row of Romanovs, looking somewhere between vexed and bored. "Not a very likely-looking Russian family, are you?" he commented dully as he examined the pale faces of the sisters after he'd finished with Nicholas and Alexandra. "Much too German in your complexions."

Dimitri, standing beside the girls, holding a flushed-faced, half-delirious Alexei in his arms, bit back the urge to tell Commissar that each of the girls – especially Olga, Maria, and Anastasia who favored their father a bit more than Tatiana did – were extraordinary examples of young Russian women and only a complete prick would think otherwise.

Even with the insult being hastily swallowed before it could take voice and cause trouble, Commissar's cold eyes were soon locked on him anyway. "Nicholas Romanov, I was led to believe you had _five_ children. Who the devil is this person?"

"That is Dimitri," Nicholas answered politely. "He is my son's companion."

" _Companion_?" His tone made it sound as if the commissar thought the idea of Alexei having any company beyond his immediate family was ludicrous. "A kind of valet, do you mean?"

"Of a sort," Nicholas admitted. "The lads are not very far apart in age – they have been good friends a long while."

"That still begs the question of why he is here," he huffed. "I thought I made it clear that I wanted only the immediate family in this room. What you call your suite, and your absurdly vast collection of servants, were to stay in the corridor for the time being."

"My son is very ill, sir," Nicholas tried to explain. "As you can see, he can barley sit up at this moment. Dimitri is used to carrying him at times such as these, since he has been doing it for so many years – I can trust him not to accidentally jolt the poor boy and do him more harm. I attempted to inform you of my son's condition, sir, and you insisted on seeing him for yourself."

"If he _is_ a hemophiliac," Commissar demanded, gesturing at Alexei with his right hand, "where's he bleeding? I see no blood."

" _Inside_ ," grunted Dimitri, sucking his front teeth as he tightened his grip protectively on the clammy teenager in his arms. "His knee is swollen from a bump – he has blood pooling into the joint under the kneecap." Any idiotka would know _that_. What kind of demented monster had those Bolshevik pigs sent to look after them?

"Well, I suppose he has a wheeled-chair?"

"Naturally, but it's with the servants outside the room," Nicholas said.

"Then for pity's sake, Citizen Romanov! Must I spell _everything_ out? Have it brought it, put the boy in it, and send _this one_ –" Commissar pointed at Dimitri, nearly choking on his own words, laced with so much unfiltered contempt. "Send him outside with the others."

"There is no need for that," Nicholas argued, shaking his head. "He does more good here with Alexei than he'd do outside with the others twiddling his thumbs."

Commissar leaned close to Nicholas' chin. So close, in fact, that his own narrow chin nearly touched Nicholas' beard. "Do not force me to make things difficult for you."

Drawing away, Nicholas nodded at Dimitri. "Place Alexei on the couch for now, and have someone bring his chair in when you leave."

Dimitri obeyed, but glared viciously over his shoulder at the nasty commissar the entire time.

* * *

Once Dimitri had gone, Commissar turned to the family again. "Now, I must speak to you regarding your servants and the others."

Anastasia thought he might as well have let Dimitri stay for _that_. Might as well have let the rest of the servants in here, too, if it concerned them.

"Firstly," he pressed on without emotion, "those you call members of your suite will be leaving – there are simply too many mouths to feed and anyone who does not serve a purpose must go. Things are far more dire than you realize. In days to come, you will have no need of them."

Alexandra swayed. "If things are so dire as you say," she cried, "I shall have every need of them in the world!"

"Nonsense." He waved that off, ignoring the blubbering – both from Alexandra and Tatiana – that ensued.

Anastasia's eyes drifted to Alexei. Was this what his premonition had meant? That they were to lose the suite, not _each other_ after all?

"As for the servants." Commissar cleared his throat. "You may keep the tutors for your children, of course, that is a given. A couple of chambermaids will be all right, too. A cook, certainly. The rest, I'm afraid, are just extravagances you and your family, Nicholas Romanov, are no longer entitled to."

"You want to send our servants _away_?" blurted Maria, now weeping too, snot streaming out of her nose. " _All_ of them, almost? They... Why, you can't _do_ that! They have stayed with us for so long, some of them have no place to go."

"That is no concern of mine."

Olga took Maria's hand and squeezed.

Anastasia's head swam. Commissar wasn't saying, yet, the thing she was most frightened to hear, though he seemed to be implying it. What about Dimitri? Would Alexei be allowed to keep him? If not, if he were sent away now, after everything... She didn't think she could bear it. Even leaving their romantic entanglement out of it, she had seen this man nearly every day since she was eight. His face was as familiar to her as those of her family and the tutors. To wake up and know she might not see him for goodness knew how long... It would be like waking up to find that the sun, always yellow before, had turned blacker than an onyx stone. Or that water had become dry and could not cure thirst any longer.

Even the thought that _Gleb_ would still be around, with his funny drawings and – more recently – poems for her left Anastasia cold and comfortless.

Finally, the verdict.

"As for the young man who just left, I don't see why–"

Anastasia stumbled backwards as if from a physical blow. She was so wobbly as she tripped over nothing that Tatiana actually let go of their mother for a moment to steady her.

"–he should be needed here in the future."

To everyone's surprise, it was Alexandra who saved Dimitri's place among them. She started howling that if Commissar wished to murder her weakened son he could do no better than to send his only friend away during so severe a bleeding episode.

Everyone stared at Alexandra's livid face for a moment, stunned.

They all knew – Anastasia most of all – that she was not fond of Dimitri at the moment. Still, compared to Commissar, her son's companion must have been a saint, even in her critical eyes.

In the end, the commissar gave in and let them keep him.

"He will have to make himself more useful, if he remains, you understand," Commissar added, doubtless chafing at giving them their way even in this relatively small matter. "He will have to be more than an idle companion in future. I expect him to work."

Nicholas nodded. "He can saw logs with me, and help carry buckets of water. He's a strong lad, and a good one. He won't object."

"I will also expect him to help the maids clean – in both this house _and_ the guardhouse."

"He is no stranger to work, I assure you," Nicholas promised. "He will do as you say."

Commissar clicked his boot heels together. "Very well, then." He looked once more at the family, as if sizing them up to see if they were any smaller now that he had reduced their spirits so considerably. His eyes stopped on Maria. "Wipe your nose, girl.

"Now, Nicholas, if your family has no further questions regarding the new arrangements, I will go out and tell the servants they are dismissed and to pack up at once."

Alexandra charged forward, gingerly lifting up her long skirts so she could walk faster. "No, sir, _I_ shall tell them – it is my duty."

Tatiana's left hand flew to her throat. "Oh, Mama is the best person in the world! And the bravest!"

At that moment – seeing their resolute Mama leave the room with her head high and eyes dry, imagining the personal goodbye she would be preparing for everyone and what such a display would take out of her emotionally – even Anastasia and Olga had to agree wholeheartedly.


	17. Arranging Medicines

_Arranging Medicines_

Bundled up against the cold, Anastasia watched Dimitri and her father saw logs. She was supposed to be gathering stray wood-chips in a wicker basket, which was her excuse for being out there – not only in the relentless, freezing wind, but also well beyond the hour of her allotted outdoor exercise time.

But she had grown bored, and – setting the not even half-filled basket down beside her – sat on a stump with her chin in her gloved hands.

Her sisters were inside by now, probably still wearing most of their gear in the house. Despite the change in guards, they still had just as many restrictions on their stove usage as before. Obviously, somebody had informed Commissar that the Romanov children couldn't be 'trusted' to use their stoves and fire-starting supplies responsibly. She hoped it wasn't Gleb, and had no reason to believe it was. It might have been the other two who hadn't left.

Anastasia loved watching Dimitri work. She had never realized what a difference there was between watching a man carry indoor things, like trays and stamped notices and suitcases, and seeing him do outdoor labors. Even with the endless layers of protective clothing, Anastasia was delighted to discover that one got to see a great deal more muscle-flexing in a setting like this.

To his credit, Dimitri had proven Nicholas right – he never complained, and he was strong, keeping at it until the job was completed.

Another reason she enjoyed observing them was for the sake of a little private fantasy of her own. She imagined her darling Papa as a northern farmer taking on an extra hand to help him get enough firewood for the unexpectedly harsh winter. Dimitri was this extra hand, and he impressed the farmer so much that he promised him his youngest daughter's hand as a reward.

A silly daydream, perhaps, but it kept Anastasia amused and distracted her from the bleakness of their surroundings and the fact that Alexei hadn't gotten any better, leaving poor Doctor Botkin at a loss.

" _There_ you are!"

She was startled out of her pretending by Maria, suddenly panting beside the stump and clapping her mittens together to try and get her little sister's attention.

" _Oh_." Anastasia put her hand to her heart. "It's you, Mashka. I thought you were inside."

"Mama says you have to come in now – she needs all of our help with some important sewing."

 _Sewing?_ She couldn't think of something she wanted to do _less_ at that moment. Still, she knew better than to refuse her Mama. Alexandra wouldn't have sent Maria all the way out here to look for her if she didn't mean it.

Sighing, Anastasia rose from the stump, brushed herself off, and picked up the basket again. She found herself wishing she'd done a little less daydreaming and been a bit more practical. If it were Olga out here, watching them, _she_ would have thought to bring them something to eat. The thought hadn't crossed _Anastasia's_ mind until now, when it was time to leave them.

She wondered what sort of wife she'd make once all this was over. Probably a rather lazy and forgetful one, in all likelihood. Still, Dimitri could do worse. For all his virtue, he wasn't always the easiest person to live with, either. She would be lazy, and he would be insufferable. What a pair they'd make!

"Mama's waiting," Maria reminded her, a bit timidly.

"Yes, yes, I'm coming along." And she was – briskly now, not wanting to face Alexandra's disappointment when she arrived in the common room – but not before waving goodbye to the two men she loved most in the world.

With the pale stretch of sunlight at their backs illuminating them, Dimitri and Nicholas looked to her very like a pair of brass clockwork figures, similar to a set she had once seen at a charity bazaar, sawing away at the same blurred indentation on the log over and over again.

* * *

When all four Romanov girls were in the common room with her, Alexandra ordered a stony-faced Sydney Gibbes to watch the door, stepping out of ear-shot of their impeding conversation but remaining close enough to quickly inform them if any Bolshevik guards – or worse, Commissar himself – were coming.

"My darling girlies," she said, reaching for Tatiana's hands and giving a watery smile to Maria, Anastasia, and Olga. "I don't mean to frighten you, but with the change in government and regulations, we have a new concern."

"What is it, Mama?" Maria asked.

"The guards who have mostly gone now _did_ steal from us, of course, and made little attempt to hide it, but – you must understand – they did have some uncrossed boundaries."

Tatiana snorted at this.

"My dear," sighed Alexandra, letting go of her her hands, "unbelievable as that may sound, it is true."

"How so?"

"They were...almost _simple_...in the way they stole from us," she tried to explain, getting a bit glassy-eyed as though she were desperately staving off one of her headaches. "If they saw a thing they wanted, they took it. If they could bully their way to snoop through something, they would. No pangs of conscience for it, either, God forgive them.

"However, special pieces of jewelry kept in our personal handbags and such have remained largely untouched. I have many loose jewels, and I saw Anastasia wearing those pearls of hers to services."

"The ones I gave her," Maria chimed in.

"I don't believe these new guards will allow anything to escape their notice – they will bleed us dry."

" _Could_ they do that?" Olga sounded concerned, her clenched knuckles going white. "Don't we have reserves somewhere? We have a family fortune in a bank someplace, I heard Papa say so."

"We may have no access to those funds." Alexandra shook her head. "I'm disappointed, too. But that is why we must take measures now to ensure we will not be desolate in the future, when all this is behind us."

"Mama," said Tatiana, a little shakily, "whatever _are_ you talking about?"

"We are going to sew our jewels – that is, what is _left_ of them – into our clothing. Coats, folded blouse cuffs – any skirt with a removable lining, as well. Pillowcases, too. Most especially your corsets, girls. You will each wear a corset filled with diamonds and pearls."

Anastasia made a face.

"My dear little lazy Anastasie," Alexandra said, with more unbridled affection in her tone than Anastasia had heard from her mother in a long time. "You must be diligent this once, for all of our sakes. Work hard – the many hands of you and your sisters will make the load a light one."

Ashamed, Anastasia forced her lips up into a weak smile. "I promise, Mama."

"Good." The former Tsarina exhaled, rolling back her shoulders as though someone had just lifted the whole sky off of them. "Remember, though, we must never speak of this – not to anyone. Not even the servants. Even Mr. Gibbes, close proximity to us that he is this moment, won't know. _Isn't_ to know."

Olga gently pulled Anastasia aside and hastily whispered, "That includes Dimitri, darling."

She wanted to protest – because, naturally, she'd already planned on telling him – but she couldn't risk their Mama overhearing and wondering why her youngest was so keen on spilling their secret to Alexei's companion.

"Whenever we need to speak of this in the presence of others," Alexandra finished as soon as Olga and Anastasia rejoined the near-huddle around her chair, "we shall say we are 'arranging medicines."

" _Brilliant_!" Tatiana cheered, clapping her hands together. "Mama, how _clever_ of you! They won't suspect a thing from that, not with Alexei so sick."

* * *

Over the next few days, the Romanov sisters sewed jewels into their clothing under their mother's careful supervision for as long of stretches as they could manage at a time. Alexandra even had them take apart the cloth buttons on their jackets and coats, replacing their inner contents with round gemstones.

Dimitri wondered at Anastasia's frequent absence, not only from any outdoor actives and – sometimes – even meals, but also from Alexei's beside. Even Alexandra was not at her Sunbeam's beck and call the way she normally was. He must have known _something_ was up. But, naturally, Anastasia could only make excuses about her Mama's heart giving her trouble and needing her daughters to nurse her.

She couldn't tell him the truth, not the whole of it, much as she longed to.

Instead, she confided in her diary, her calloused fingers burning and aching with each word she etched out.

 _Someday_ , she wrote, she'd tell him – and he wouldn't be upset that she had had to hide this secret from him. No, not a bit. Instead, he'd laugh and be glad for the unexpected stash of jewels that would set them up somewhere decent, someplace like home.

At least, she _hoped_ so.

The first pieces of clothing they finished hiding the jewels inside of were the corsets. Tatiana encouraged Anastasia to also sew the _Together in Paris_ key-necklace inside hers.

"But... How will I open the music box without it?" Her brow had furrowed in confusion.

"The engraving is in gold," she pointed out, her own corset spread across her lap. "And the chain is gold. These guards won't discern the difference between a key and an ordinary gold necklace. They are too coarse and ignorant." She threaded a needle. "If it were possible, I would say sew the music box in there, too."

Her face grim, Anastasia nodded, lifted the precious necklace over her head, and dutifully sewed it inside the corset.

* * *

One afternoon, Anastasia noticed Dimitri did not come outside – even to saw logs – but kept himself by the pathetic, barely-warm embers glowing in the stove at the far corner of the dining room.

He wore two pairs of socks, one over the other, and two shirts, yet no coat.

Nicholas had excused him from any duties that would require him to be in the coldest parts of the house for the day – _that_ was strange, too.

"Are you ill?" Anastasia asked, easing down onto the floor by the stove beside him, feeling like a sack of marbles thanks to the pearls in her corset.

He blinked at her as if he hadn't realized she was there. "No, I'm fine."

"Where's your greatcoat?"

He raised his eyebrows at her. "With your mother, oddly enough. She said it was looking shabby and offered to mend it for me."

Anastasia felt as if someone had jabbed a sharp pin into her lower back. It couldn't be a coincidence that – while they were 'arranging medicines' – Alexandra suddenly decided to mend Dimitri's coat, which had – if she was being honest – been in a frightful state for a while now, with a frayed, torn lining and three buttons too loose and one missing entirely.

She had to be hiding jewels in there, too.

Not too many, he'd notice if the coat was excessively heavy when it was returned to him. Still, her Mama was putting _something_ in there – and not to frame him for thievery, as Alexei had, either.

But _why_?

Mama didn't trust Dimitri with their secret – she didn't trust _any_ of the few remaining servants with a thing of this magnitude. Too much unfair temptation for them, she probably thought. And something to put them in an uncomfortable position if discovered and questioned by the guards.

As far as Anastasia knew, not even the tutors were getting jewels sewn into _their_ clothing...

Unless... Could it be out of fear that if something happened and they were separated, leaving Dimitri alone with Alexei, the servant would have no money to look after him? Mama would want her darling Baby cared for, even if it meant inadvertently trusting Dimitri with insanely valuable jewels.

'Medicines' for Alexei, placed on the person of the servant who spent the most time with him. It wasn't illogical; it was almost brilliant.

But what would have to – what _could_ possibly – happen to result in a situation of that sort? Mama would never let herself be torn from Alexei's side. Never.

The whole Romanov family would never willingly part from one another. Anastasia couldn't imagine life, even temporarily, without her sisters – especially Maria, who had always been right by her side.

" _Dusha_ ," Dimitri whispered, interrupting her thoughts, "what's been happening with your family? You've got some kind of plan between you lot – at least you girls do – what's it about?"

She swallowed and pulled her knees to her chest, resting her chin on her kneecap.

After a long moment of silence, "You can't tell me?"

She shook her head. "I'm sorry, Dimitri."

"Can I do anything to help?"

"Are you any good at sewing?" she teased.

"If I was, do you think the woman who used to _rule Russia_ would be mending _my_ coat right now?"

A giggle escaped her. "I guess not."

"Do the new guards frighten you?" Dimitri asked, seemingly changing the subject.

"They _disgust_ me more than anything." Anastasia shuddered in spite of herself. "You never would have seen one of Papa's imperial guards behaving the way these men do."

"You sound like Tatiana."

"I do not." Anastasia scowled at him. "Take that back."

He shrugged helplessly. "They frighten _me_ a little," he admitted.

"Really? Why?"

"Do you remember that ugly Samovar your Aunt Olga gave your Papa for Christmas once – with the spooky witch painted on the side?"

Her brow crinkled as she struggled to recall. She hadn't seen Auntie Olga – the aunt for which her eldest sister was named – in a long time. Much less thought about childhood-era presents from her.

Then, inspiration. A flash of memory. " _Oh_! You mean the one with Baba Yaga? Her on one side, and her house with the chicken feet painted on the other?"

"That's it."

"It gave Alexei nightmares," Anastasia laughed. "For a _month_."

"Yeah, anyway, do you remember how Baba Yaga's eyes looked?"

"Creepy black hollows, like ink pools."

"Did it ever make you feel sick to your stomach if you looked too long?"

She seemed surprised. "What, you too?"

"Me especially – I used to feel like the samovar was possessed." He reddened slightly, as if embarrassed to be confessing this to her. "I went near-catatonic every time I had to dust that creepy thing."

" _Why_ are we talking about this?"

"Because, every time I cleaned it, every time I was forced to look at it, do you know what my constant thought was?"

"That I was probably hiding behind the curtain, laughing at you?"

"Wait." That threw him off track for a moment. " _Were_ you?"

"Maybe." She wound a lock of her auburn hair around her index finger coyly. "Do you _want_ me to have been?"

"All right, enough of that. Shut up for a second and listen," he huffed, brushing off her flirtation.

" _Humph_." She dropped the lock of hair and pouted.

"My thought was always one thing, always the same," he back-tracked hurriedly, as though he thought he had to speak faster or would never get out what he meant to say. "I would look at Baba Yaga's empty eyes and think: _this woman has no soul_."

Anastasia blanched slightly.

"Some of the Bolshevik guards, when I look at them, give me that same feeling."

* * *

The next day, when Alexandra had finished with Dimitri's coat, he was summoned into the common room to retrieve it.

He tried it on in there, in front of Olga and Alexandra.

"Much better," Alexandra commented, as he straightened out the sleeves. "Now you look more like a young man who spends his days with a tsarevich, and less like a Petersburg ruffian."

He didn't correct her about Alexei not being the tsarevich anymore, having not been one for a long time now; he didn't have that kind of cruelty in him.

All he managed was an awkward, "Thank you," as he tried to figure out why the greatcoat felt so different – heavier, somehow.

As though she could read his mind, Olga said, "It's the new buttons and, of course, we have had it washed for you – clothes always feel much heavier with new buttons and a good washing and crisp starching."


	18. The Knife Which Severs

_The Knife Which Severs_

It was the crying that worried Dimitri. He hadn't seen the former princesses all day, largely assuming Alexandra was ill again and they were looking after her. But when the four girls showed up at luncheon (their parents absent), none of them – not even Maria, who always enjoyed a good tuck-in – were eating.

Instead, they were looking down past their plates as if they weren't there, crying steadily.

Even Tatiana – usually the picture of perfect composure, the one to comfort the distress of her sisters – was glassy-eyed and red-nosed and utterly speechless.

Anastasia hadn't looked this upset when Alexandra told her that Nicholas was no longer tsar and they weren't the imperial family anymore. Back then, she had appeared, Dimitri recalled, more stunned than anything else.

Shell-shocked, perhaps.

Now, she looked...well, _broken_... Her face was streaked with tears, and her blue eyes held the most dismal expression he'd ever seen in them. An expression of total hopelessness.

Something – or, more probably, some _one_ – had finally gotten through the protective, clownish layer of Anastasia's personality, deep enough to visibly hurt her.

Whoever they were, whatever they'd actually done, Dimitri already hated them for that.

Less than ten minutes into the meal, Dimitri couldn't stand being in ignorance a moment longer, and almost exploded, asking them – in rather a harsher tone than he meant to – what was wrong.

Maria's mouth opened, only to let out another sob. This left him with the unfair feeling that he'd screamed directly at her, in some kind of deliberate attack, and made things worse.

 _Tatiana_ certainly seemed to take this view, if her watery glare was any indication.

Anastasia didn't react at all – she just stared at him. For a terrifying moment that made Dimitri feel like he was sitting on a broken piece of electrical wiring, her eyes were so empty they almost reminded him of the guards' – and of Samovar Baba Yaga's.

It was Olga who took pity on him. "Dimitri, please forgive our manners – we've had some distressing news."

"What news is this?"

"They're forcing Papa to go to Moscow."

His mouth formed an O of surprise. "Shouldn't I be packing then? How are we going to move Alexei when he's this sick? Has anyone–"

Maria cried louder.

Olga held up a hand. "Dimitri, stop. _Think_. What did I just tell you?"

"That we're being moved to Moscow," he said flatly.

"No, I did _not_ ," she sighed, rubbing at her temples. "I told you _Papa_ is going to Moscow. Alexei is too sick, you've just said so yourself."

Realization dawned. " _No_..." he faltered, voice cracking. "They can't _do_ that!"

"That's what Papa said," Olga told him. "Commissar disagreed. Mama can't let him go alone – remember, he was alone when he abdicated the throne – and Alexei cannot be moved... The _rest_... The rest, I think you can guess, Dimitri."

" _Bolshie pigs_!" Dimitri snapped so venomously, as he slammed his fist down onto the tabletop, that Maria stopped mid-wail to gape at him in surprise. She then broke into a round of hiccups.

Anastasia scarcely jumped, but some small light did return to her eyes.

" _Shh_!" hissed Tatiana, leaning across the now-rattling table. "Don't be a fool. Remember where we are."

"He's not wrong, Tatya," Olga said softly. "Whatever else he is, he's not _wrong_."

"That doesn't _matter_ ," Tatiana growled. "He can be a _saint_ , and still get us all into trouble if he doesn't learn to season his words a bit more. Who cares if he is right or wrong. The guards certainly don't, why should we?"

Mr. Gibbes, who'd been sitting with them near the head of the table, pretending to read a week-old newspaper, suddenly stood up and said that if the girls weren't going to eat, perhaps they should return to the common room to resume comforting their poor parents.

Tatiana rose, then Olga.

The little pair sat a few seconds more, before getting up without pushing in their chairs behind themselves.

Olga, lingering in the doorway, grasped Anastasia's wrist. "You've forgotten something," she said quickly and loudly. "Stay behind to collect it – but don't be too long. Meet us upstairs when you're done, all right, darling?"

Anastasia nodded, taking a step back into the dining room as Olga vanished with the others.

Dimitri's brow furrowed – it took a minute for him to understand what Olga had done. When he finally comprehended, he was immensely grateful. She wasn't sending Anastasia back for a material possession forgotten in the dining room; she was giving them – himself and Anastasia – a private moment to speak, when nobody else would have business in this room.

For a few minutes, at least.

As soon as the sound of footsteps faded down the corridor, Dimitri opened his arms and Anastasia ran into them. She began crying silently onto his shirt label, soaking the cotton fabric with so many tears it was as if he'd spilled a glass of water on himself.

"It'll be all right," he murmured, stroking her hair.

"Maria's going," she croaked out, resting her cheek on his chest. "Tatiana needs to be here to look after Alexei – and Mama will fall to pieces without at least _one_ of her children... Olga picks fights with her, though she doesn't mean to, so it _has_ to be..."

"It has to be your Mashka," he finished for her. "I'm sorry."

"We've never been apart – _never_."

"I _know_."

"We even went to visit Grandmama in Paris together."

"I remember that – I was in the sleigh that met you at the station when you came back. Maria tripped getting off the train, and you just about put my eye out when you went to hug Alexei."

He felt her smile through her slowing tears. "I wish we could go back – to that exact day. Everything was _perfect_."

Not really. Back then, they'd been idiotic children just learning to live with one another, and – naturally – Alexei had still been a hemophiliac. All the same, Dimitri didn't blame her for looking at the past with rose-colored glasses. He often looked back on their Livadia trips the same way, even the rough ones where Alexei was ill and he was up half the night with him.

"You still have _me_ , Dusha," he whispered into her ear as he pulled away, letting her go before anyone came in and saw them locked in an embrace. "You still have me."

She nodded. "I _know_."

* * *

The departure for Nicholas, Alexandra, and Maria was at some ungodly morning hour when there wasn't any natural light visible in the sky yet. Still, nobody yawned or looked tired, only brokenhearted.

Maria handed her suitcase to an officer, who looked gruff before meeting her big blue eyes and softening slightly, then turned back to her little sister on the staircase.

Anastasia stood there holding a yawning Pooka. The poor dog, barely able to keep his eyes open, was probably wondering why everyone was awake and moving things and whispering brokenly.

Maria leaned in to hug her, squashing Pooka between them. The dog let out a yip, trying to squirm away. A useless endeavor, as Anastasia was lifting him into Maria's arms as they pulled apart from each other.

"Take him with you," she said softly. "He'll watch after you and Mama. He's good luck, too. Even Tatya thinks so – and she knows about that stuff."

Bawling, she exclaimed, "No, I can't take Pooka – he's _your_ dog!" Her arms locked around the small gray dog instinctively and she made no motion to hand him back to her sister, though, regardless of her desperate words.

"You can give him back to me when we meet again," Anastasia told her.

"Lord's blessings, little sister." She leaned forward once more and locked one arm around Anastasia's neck, drawing her close so she could kiss her damp cheek goodbye.

"God be with you, Mashka," she choked out.

On the other side of the railing, Nicholas was hugging Olga and Tatiana goodbye, chucking them gently under their chins as he pulled away, telling them to be brave while he and their mother were gone.

Alexei was not present, still too weak to come down the stairs. The former tsar and tsarina had already said their goodbyes to him earlier and the distress of it remained etched on Alexandra's white-as-salt face.

Dimitri stood by the big pair, and was plainly surprised to find himself _also_ being tightly embraced by the departing ex-tsar.

"Take care of my children," Nicholas ordered, in not quite a whisper, though he spoke almost directly into Dimitri's ear as if to convey some secret. "Look after my son. Don't let anyone hurt my girls while I'm gone."

"I'll watch out for them," he swore. "I promise."

Pulling away, Nicholas clapped him on the shoulder. "Good man."

Alexandra, it turned out, had something to say to Alexei's companion before leaving as well. "Don't loan your greatcoat out to any of the guards – I didn't mend it for _them_."

If she were less upset about her family being split up, Anastasia would have rolled her eyes.

Mama was being a bit silly. Dimitri would _never_ loan his coat to the guards. No sooner than he would eat dirt, or lick the sole of a Bolshevik officer's boot. Gleb would probably have to be dying of hypothermia before Dimitri would even _consider_ offering up his own greatcoat.

Of course, knowing – as Dimitri did not – that there must be jewels hidden under the lining, Anastasia understood Alexandra's anxiety about such a fortune being lost.

All the same, if she was _that_ concerned over it, she ought to have let Dimitri in on their secret. It was unfair to expect him to be the guardian of a trust he knew nothing whatsoever _about_.

"We'll see each other soon," Maria said, almost in a plea, reaching up with her free hand – the other currently holding a whining Pooka under her arm like a rugby ball – to touch Anastasia's outstretched fingers.

Their pinky-fingers interlocked, holding tight as they had to step apart, keeping contact as long as their – painfully short, it felt – arms could stretch.

" _Very_ soon," Anastasia said, though her heart had a crack running down its center at the fear that this assurance might be far from true. Who knew how long until Alexei was better, or if the Bolsheviks would even keep their word and send them to Moscow to meet their parents when he finally was.

Tatiana tried to come forward and carry their mother's suitcase to the door. A surly-faced guard stopped her, snatching the suitcase away so roughly he might very well have bruised her long, delicate fingers in the process. She tried to step around him, despite being left carrying nothing, but one of his comrades stood squarely in her path so that she could not follow their parents and sister, even just outside to see them off properly.

Seeing this petty cruelty – and Tatiana's expression of bitter determination in response to it – proved too much for Olga, who buried her face in her hands and leaned against the wall.

Anastasia slumped to her knees, dropping down two steps, and clutched at the railing's narrow support bars. She rested her forehead on the cold iron grating between the bars and began to sob with abandon.

When she regained some control – Olga and Tatiana suddenly beside her, gently lifting her up off her stinging kneecaps by her armpits and whispering reassurances into her ears on either side – she discovered the room was nearly empty.

The guards had cleared off, to do whatever it was they did all day when not bossing them around. The sun seemed to have arrived in thin, golden slants. Natural light now filled the entryway.

Everything was so hollow and quiet, Anastasia was surprised to see Dimitri still there, watching her through the other side of the grating.

Somehow, the fact that she could see – in the new light – _his_ eyes were rimmed with red, too, made her feel less alone than any comforting words her sisters could say.


	19. Of Fights & Removed Doors

_Of Fights & Removed Doors_

"Mama was reading _that_." Alexei reached his arm out from under the blanket and pointed to a fat black book on the nightstand. "The marker should be where she left off."

With a light grunt, Dimitri stood up from his chair at Alexei's bedside, fetched the book, and returned.

It turned out to be an illustrated Bible. Alexandra had left off at the second chapter of _The Book of Job_. Which – considering Alexei's current state of health, the recent departure of his parents and second-youngest sister, and his obvious feeling of helplessness and abandonment – made Dimitri wonder if Alexandra's mind had been firing on all four cylinders when she made this selection.

Perhaps she had chosen this passage _before_ learning that she and her husband were being sent to Moscow.

At least, Dimitri certainly _hoped_ such was the case.

Either that, or Alexandra had no sense of irony.

Well, to be fair, humor in general never _had_ been her strong point, poor woman. Every now and again Dimitri would find himself wondering how a clown like Anastasia had ever come from _her_.

At least this Bible was in Russian. Reading in English wasn't Dimitri's strong suit, even though he'd overheard many – and even participated in a few – of Alexei's English lessons from Mr. Gibbes.

Once, years ago, he'd gotten so fed up trying to read aloud to Alexei in English he'd slammed the book shut and blurted out, " _Shit_!" in the middle of the attempt.

Nicholas had dragged him out of Alexei's bedroom by the ear while Alexandra, clutching at her chest and gasping in horror, appeared to be having some kind of heart palpitation.

That had almost been the end of his association with the Romanovs. Alexandra would have thrown him out, he was certain, if not for Nicholas' defending him and for the fact that he knew about Alexei's hemophilia.

In his defense, Dimitri had been barely thirteen at the time.

He tried to remember if Anastasia had been present for that particular disaster, and couldn't for the life of himself recall one way or the other.

She was present _now_ , on the other side of Alexei's bed, sewing a running-stitch onto a lumpy-looking pillowcase.

Dimitri had almost put his chair beside hers, but the acute awareness that Alexei knew about their relationship – even having worked out that they'd been intimate – made him feel uncomfortable doing so. Alexei hadn't directly mentioned it since the Faberge egg set-up – of which the gold watch and chain in his pants pocket was a constant reminder – but Dimitri saw no reason to rub the former Tsarevich's nose in it.

"You may begin," Alexei said, his body very straight and rigid as he stared up at the ceiling.

Dimitri bent his head and opened his mouth to begin reading about the trials of Job – a disenfranchised fellow only slightly worse off than the Romanovs currently were – but was interrupted by arrival of Gleb carrying in the ornate samovar with the carved-swan on top they'd brought with them from the Catherine Palace, and another guard, wheeling in a tea-service.

"What is this?" Anastasia asked, with reason. They were far from accustomed to the guards waiting on them.

Gleb entered and placed the Samovar down. "A peace offering, Comrade Romanova."

"Peace offering?" she echoed, while – across from her – Dimitri just seethed and glared and wondered what in blazes they were up to. "For what?"

"We have some news," Gleb began.

"From our parents?" Anastasia asked eagerly, as they'd not heard a word from them or Maria since their departure.

"Nothing so comforting, I'm afraid," he admitted, shaking his head. "The officers have made a decision I doubt you and your sisters will look upon favorably."

"And what decision is that?" Dimitri demanded, his tone bitter.

Gleb kept looking at Anastasia, answering Dimitri's question as if _she_ had asked it. "The officers have elected to take the locks off your bedroom door – if you do not prove compliant, I'm under orders to remove the door from its hinges."

"That's _perverse_!" Dimitri snapped.

The Romanov girls were young ladies – how were they meant to undress for bed without a lock on their door, knowing the house was full of untrustworthy men who despised their absent parents?

Dimitri found himself wondering whether it would be counterproductive for him to drag his own cot up to their room and – in another unceasing case of irony – guard them from their guards at night. Anastasia would be glad enough, probably, but he doubted Tatiana or even Olga wanted a man in their private space. Still, better him than a Bolshie Peeping Tom.

What would Nicholas have wanted? He wished he could ask him somehow.

"Please rest assured I was not among my comrades who voted for this," Gleb continued, still appealing only to Anastasia. "And I've spoken to Commissar. I have his word – and you have _mine_ , Comrade Romanova – that you and your sisters will remain unharassed."

Anastasia stared at Gleb with a mixed expression. Her look was part icily indignant, part softened with flattered gratitude – or so Dimitri believed – because of her irksome friendship with this particular guard.

Although, as far as Dimitri was concerned, Gleb hadn't actually done anything for them to be grateful for. Allegedly speaking to Commissar didn't necessarily do them any great good. Bringing Anastasia water in her family's own samovar wasn't exactly self-sacrificing on anything except for, perhaps, his time.

The guard who'd arrived with Gleb started coughing pointedly at Dimitri and gesturing over at the samovar.

It took him a minute to understand. Oh, yes, they could bring it up here, but they were still leaving it to _him_ to serve Anastasia and Alexei. He was glad to do so – it was his job, after all – but the fact that they just _expected_ him to fulfill _their_ alleged favor of peace rankled and chafed like an unwashed shirt collar.

Giving the guard who'd coughed a sour look – and ignoring Gleb – Dimitri rose from his place and started turning the teacups right side up.

"I also have some new pictures and poems for you, Comrade." He could see Gleb handing Anastasia a small sheath of rolled pages tied together with frayed, dirty-looking string. "If you should find some spare time."

"Thank you," she managed, taking them.

While Alexei's steaming black tea was steeping, Dimitri began slicing a bruised lemon brought up with the tea-service, for the hot-water-and-lemon combination he knew Anastasia preferred to actual tea.

When Gleb and the other guard left after this, Alexei propped himself up onto his elbows. Leaving the tea for a moment, Dimitri came over and adjusted the pillows behind Alexei's back. "Better?"

"Yes, thank you."

"They've brought some milk with the service," Dimitri told him. "Do you want a little?"

Alexei shook his head. "Not today."

"They might not give us any tomorrow," was his short reminder.

"I know, that is all right."

During their conversation, Anastasia had removed the string from the papers Gleb gave her and begun reading one of the poems.

She was so engrossed, she didn't notice when Dimitri finished getting Alexei settled and stood beside her chair holding her hot lemon water in a silver-rimmed cup and matching saucer.

" _Ahem_."

She glanced up, finally. "Oh, set it down on Alexei's nightstand. I'll get it later."

"It's hot _now_."

"I _said_ , I'll drink it later." She arched a single red eyebrow, as if just _daring_ him to keep pushing her. "It's _scalding_ – I can tell by the steam. I don't want to burn my throat."

Dimitri didn't actually care when – or _if_ – she drank it. She could have dumped it out the window, for all he minded. No, what bothered him was how intent she was on reading Gleb's writing and gawking at his dumb drawings. What could that man possibly have to say on paper that would fascinate her to this extreme degree?

"Could you take a few steps back, _please_?" Anastasia huffed, after a few moments of him peering over her shoulder – the cup and saucer still in his hands.

"Why?"

"Because you're annoying me, that's why."

"Oh, that's right, you wouldn't want _me_ reading _his_ love poems to you, would you?"

The papers dropped down into her lap and she gave Dimitri a look so severe he thought she was about to slap him across the face. Maybe if Alexei hadn't been watching them so intently, she _would_ have.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" she demanded, point blank. "Gleb's poems aren't about me, first off."

" _Sure_ ," he snorted.

"Second, they're a pretty distraction in this God-forsaken place."

He shrugged coldly.

"Third, I don't _care_ if you read them! If you want, I'll _give_ them to you when I'm done – which I'll be a lot sooner if you quit breathing down my neck!"

"I don't want to read anything _he_ has to say," Dimitri growled. "And I don't see why _you_ should."

"Because he's my friend, and I just _want_ to."

"Your _friend_ who is – when Tatiana complains about the locks, and you know she will – going to take your bedroom door off its hinges so his comrades can stroll in and out at their pleasure."

"That's not his fault."

"How pathetic is it that you can be bought off with hot water and paper?"

"Don't talk to my sister that way," Alexei cut in weakly. But for once, no one was paying attention to him.

"I don't know," she replied icily. "How pathetic is it that you feel threatened by a few scraps of paper?"

"Hah, threatened! That's _rich_!"

Stuffing the pages into the folds of her skirt, she jumped out of her chair. "I can't deal with you when you're like this – I'm going for a walk." To Alexei, as she stomped away, "I'll check on you later, Alyosha."

"A _walk_? At this time of day?" Dimitri called after her departing back, already beginning to feel like a jerk. "I hope your best friend Gleb has some sway with the guards' current outdoor schedule, otherwise you're as trapped in this hellhole of a house as _I_ am!"

He fell backwards into her empty chair, thinking nothing could possibly make him feel worse than he already did.

Then, he heard Alexei crying softly under the covers. His black tea was spilled all over the bed, the tea cup rolling perilously close to the edge, the stray saucer somewhere by his left foot.

 _Christ_.

"Alexei, I'm sorry," Dimitri said, touching the lump in the damp blankets he was fairly certain was the boy's arm. "I won't yell at your sister like that again, I promise – I'm just going mad from being locked indoors too long."

"It's all my fault," he sniffled.

"What are you talking about?"

"None of this would be happening if I wasn't sick," he hiccuped, his face turned into his pillow now. "We'd be with Mama and Papa and Maria, wherever they are."

"They're going to Moscow, you know that."

"No, I don't," Alexei sobbed. "And neither do _you_."

Dimitri felt sick to his stomach with the realization that Alexei was right. They had no idea if Nicholas, Alexandra, and Maria were on route to Moscow – it was only where the guards and officers _said_ they were taking them. That was in no way the same thing.

"They're gone, we don't know where, and we're all going to bits in this place," he continued brokenly. "If I hadn't bumped myself for the umpteenth time and–"

"Alexei, please, don't talk like that – it's _not_ your fault."

" _Everything's_ my fault!" he shrieked. "If I wasn't a bleeder, Papa would have made _me_ Tsar when he gave up the throne, and I could have made sure we were all fine. We'd be back home in the Catherine Palace right now."

"Alexei, _stop_!" Dimitri's voice had more force in it than he'd ever used in a conversation with the former Tsarevich before. "You're being ridiculous. You're wrong about every bit of what you've just said."

"No, I am _not_!" he barked, stubborn. "It's just your _job_ to try and make me feel better!"

"If you were the tsar, that might have saved us during the first revolution, but what about the Bolsheviks? They still would have taken power – they wanted it too badly not to."

Alexei turned his head and peered up at him with blood-shot eyes. "You don't think I could have fought the Bolsheviks?"

Dimitri snorted incredulously. "At _fifteen_? With traitors in your army deserting you to save their own skin? Good _God_ , no!"

Sulky, Alexei kicked the topmost blanket in Dimitri's direction with the one leg that wasn't swollen. "Wash this."

Dimitri almost conceded meekly, the way he knew he was supposed to, then a spirit of frustration seemed to take possession of him – or perhaps it had never truly left after his fight with Anastasia. "Ask me _nicely_ , and I will."

In the dead silence that ensued, the neglected teacup finally rolled from the bed and fell to the floor, breaking into two neat pieces, handle severed from empty cup.

Alexei gaped at Dimitri for a moment. His chalky face was a puzzle of mixed emotions. First, he was plainly angry, then he blanched completely. "I get it now."

"Get what?"

"Why Derevenko hated me, why the guards hate us."

Dimitri wished the floor would open up and swallow him. His fervent belief in letting Nicholas keep his delusions was hypocritical, now, in light of what he'd just done to the man's son.

"I see it in your face."

"Alexei, I didn't mean it."

"You did," he said quietly. "And it's all right." Swallowing, he rasped out, "Will you please wash the blanket, Dimitri? I know _I_ soiled it, but I'm unable to get up at the moment to remedy it for myself, and I'd truly appreciate having it clean."

"Of course," he said, meek as a kitten now, bending over the bed to scoop up the blanket and other soiled covers. "I'll be back to remake your bed as soon as they dry."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." He readjusted the slipping bundle of dampened fabric in his arms. "And I don't hate you."

"I know you don't."

"Derevenko, and those guards, are idiotkas."

"I know that, too." A very little bit of color returned to Alexei's face. "I just never expected to understand how they felt – especially not through _you_."

* * *

Anastasia sat on her cot, a fat leather book in her lap and a petulant expression on her face. A knock on the bare door-frame had made her look up to see Dimitri standing there.

Thanks to the lack of door separating them (Tatiana _had_ complained, as he'd aggravatingly predicted, and the guards hadn't taken her objections in stride), she couldn't even pretend to ignore him.

"What are you reading?"

She held up the book. " _Anna Karenina_. Again. I know how much you hate me having anything _new_ to read."

"Ana, I..."

"No, no, this is just _fine_ ," she went on sourly. "Now that you're here you can do me a favor and hit me with it." She tossed the book across the room in disgust, where it struck the opposite wall with a _thump_. "That way, I can get amnesia and forget she throws herself under a train and that this entire book is a stupid, pointless _waste of time_!"

"You're still mad at me."

She cocked her head. "Whatever gave you _that_ idea?"

"Call it intuition." He shrugged with a meek coolness that made her want to spring off her cot, bound across the room, pick the book back up, and throw it again – this time at his _head_. "Can I come in?"

"There's literally nothing stopping you," Anastasia groused. "Did you come here to gloat about that?"

"Actually, no," he told her, walking in as if she had offered a proper invitation. "I came in here to see where I'm going to put my cot."

" _Your_ cot?" He couldn't be serious. "Oh, Tatiana will _love_ that."

"Well, your father did tell me to look after you."

"Does _Doctor Botkin_ know you're trying to move in with us?"

"Botkin's so high on the contents of his medicine bag he thinks he's in Paris eating a crème brulee right now."

Anastasia groaned and buried her face in her hands. First Alexei was sick, then Botkin's kidneys had go and trouble him, leading to his medicating himself into incoherence. At least, if Alexei had an emergency and the doctor was in no state to help, it wouldn't be her fault _this_ time.

Easing down beside her on the cot, Dimitri grunted lightly. "Listen, I didn't mean most of the things I said earlier – I was in a mood and I took it out on you."

"I don't have much to look forward to here," she said. "It seems like every time I turn around, something else is being taken away." She scooted around to face him. "If it's not my parents and Maria, it's the _door_.

"I _do_ look forward to Gleb's poems and drawings. And, yes, I like talking to him sometimes – less since he's become a Bolshie, of course, but still. I don't care if it's pathetic, Dimitri; the last thing I need right now is you trying to take _that_ from me, too."

"You want to know the reason you liking him upsets me?"

"Because you're an insanely jealous lunatic?"

"Uh, _no_. Wrong. Guess again."

"I _hate_ guessing games. Let me think..." She pursed her lips. "Because he's one of the guards whose eyes remind you of samovar Baba Yaga's?"

"Not usually. Sometimes when he looks at the big pair, or Alexei, I see it, but around you his eyes are normal."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Wasn't it a _good_ thing if at least one of their captors didn't hate them all?

"He's in love with you."

"He is _not_." She wrinkled her nose.

"Trust me, he _is_." His voice sounded more hollow than properly bitter. "It takes one to know one."

"Dimitri..."

"If you ever did return his feelings, he could do more for you than I could, and that really burns me up."

"What are you talking about?"

"He works for the government – if he wanted to help you escape..." He shook his head and sucked his teeth in frustration. "Let's just say he'd have a much better chance than I ever would."

"I would never _take_ his help!" Anastasia gripped Dimitri's arm and squeezed. "I don't care about his _reasons_ – I care about my sisters, and you, and Alexei. I could _never_ leave with some Bolshevik man, to God only knows where, and just forget about you all! How could you possibly think that?"

If, in Dimitri's warped hypothetical world, she was to do such a thing, it would be worse than death.

Worse than lying buried deep in the cold ground with no breath in her nostrils.

How could she go on with her life deserting Olga, Tatiana, and Alexei? Or knowing she'd never be reunited with her parents or Maria?

And Dimitri himself, for all that he made her want to scream on a daily basis, would haunt her every hour of every day. His absence would be a hole in her heart, making her lost and lonely, even outright mad.

A hole which Gleb, whatever his feelings for her might be, could _never_ hope to fill.

Then there was the fact that Gleb – her friend or not – was a shameless Bolshie. Accepting help from him would be like her mama taking asylum from their German relatives; something Alexandra had sworn she would rather die than do. Anastasia hadn't understood her resolve until now – because, so suddenly, she felt the same patriotism and pride running through her veins.

Shaking his arm free from her grasp, Dimitri reached up and cupped the side of her face, dragging it up to his and kissing it.

" _No door_ ," she murmured, when he pulled away for a breath.

"Everyone's downstairs," he whispered.

Lucky for them, the Bolshevik guards were a noisy bunch. If they really were all downstairs, Anastasia imagined she'd hear their stomping boots pounding on the stairs in plenty of time.

Dimitri had worked his way from her mouth down past her chin and was now kissing her neck repeatedly.

"Aren't we in a fight?" she teased.

"Does it _matter_?" he groaned between kisses, reaching down to unfasten the top button of her blouse.

She supposed not. Glancing down as he folded back the blouse's collar and traced the shape of her collarbone with his fingers, she noticed something. "Your hands are raw – what happened?"

"Alexei spilled tea on his bedding," he told her nonchalantly. "I had to scrub them clean. The solvent was a little harsh."

"Do they hurt?" She lifted one of his red, chapped hands to her lips.

"Not at all," he lied, leaning in to kiss her collarbone.

"One of us should probably make an appearance downstairs soon."

" _Probably_ ," he agreed, the word somewhat muffled since he'd barely pulled away to say it.

Anastasia briefly wondered if she should tell him they couldn't be together like they'd been the night she'd drugged Botkin's tea; if she should mention what Olga reminded her of, about her being a carrier of hemophilia and what could happen if she ended up with child.

Or that she couldn't take off her corset, since she'd promised her mama she'd keep it on at all times except for bathing. A bit difficult to explain, with him not knowing about the hidden jewels.

In the end, she decided – for all that Dimitri could be a dunce sometimes – he probably had enough common sense to know she wasn't going to go much further with him in a room with no door in the middle of the day, and bringing up other reasons why would only spoil the moment.

* * *

The hours spent standing over a steaming metal tub, scrubbing stubborn tea stains until his knuckles cracked and bled, had seemed almost worth it when Dimitri heard the gentle concern in Anastasia's voice, and when she kissed one of his chafed hands.

There was no telling when they'd have another moment like this one. Someone was _always_ around – even with almost half the household gone. He tried to memorize everything – every soft moan of pleasure Anastasia made, every creak in the cot whenever one of them shifted their weight slightly – and store it up to think about later.

The one sound he didn't want in his memory – much less to hear it the first time – was that of a horrified gasp from the wide, gaping doorway.

Tatiana stood there, still as a tall statue, unblinking.

He immediately let go of her little sister, looking away as Anastasia hastened to fasten the two buttons of her blouse he'd undone.

The uncanny thing about Tatiana's stern, shocked face as she stood there was how much Dimitri felt as though Alexandra Romanova herself had just caught them fooling around together.

It shouldn't have been all that surprising, given that Tatiana had always resembled her mother so closely, especially when upset or stunned, but somehow it still unnerved him.

She looked almost exactly the way Alexandra had (minus the dramatic heart-clutching) when he'd said _shit_ in front of Alexei during that English reading when he was thirteen.

In light of this, he decided that this probably wasn't a great time to ask if – and, then, _where_ – he should move his cot into their room tonight.

* * *

Buttoning her blouse, Anastasia mulled over that she'd forgotten to take one factor into account.

The Bolsheviks might have been noisy, Olga might have been unable to arrive without making some – at least small – alerting noise, but Governess could be a silent as a gazelle gilding through a forest glen.

Just like their mother.


	20. The Things We Know

_The Things We Know_

Before Tatiana would say a word to them about what she'd walked in on, she herded Anastasia and Dimitri down the corridor and into the common room. It was the only room of theirs – apart from Alexei's, Botkin's, and, _hopefully_ , the water closet in the lavatory, though none of them had had a spare moment to check and confirm this for a fact yet – that still had a functioning door.

When she had closed the door behind them, Tatiana whirled on her sister. "What in heaven's name–"

" _Tatya_ ," Anastasia cut in. "You don't understand."

"With a _servant_?" she squeaked out in a horrified, shrill little voice, undeterred that she had not gotten to finish her original thought.

Anastasia's face flushed. She loved her sister dearly, though she sometimes wondered how she could manage to be so posh and uppity, given their current circumstances. To hear Tatiana's tone, you'd think they were still living in the Catherine Palace, eligible princes were coming by every day for tea, and Anastasia had elected to throw herself into the arms of a serving boy who was a near stranger. As opposed to the fact that she'd simply fallen in love with someone who had been their truest friend for years – who had given up his life as a private citizen to serve them.

Looking back and forth between the pair of them – former Tsarevich's companion and former Princess of Russia – Tatiana seemed to be putting the pieces of this puzzle together and liking the picture they revealed less and less.

"That nightgown Olga told the guards was hers...in the stove...?"

Gnawing on her lower lip, Anastasia nodded.

Tatiana clutched the arm of an upholstered chair, as if for support. " _Anastasia Nicholaevna Romanova_!"

"You don't understand," she said again.

"No, in fact, I think I understand everything now."

In a way, maybe she did. There must have been a hundred things that magically made sense – looks between the pair of them that she'd never been able to puzzle out the way Olga had, formerly somewhat tomboyish Anastasia's sudden interest in her appearance – all coming together now.

Yes, the bare facts must have made perfect sense to her logical older sister. It was the whys and hows she did not comprehend, perhaps did not even truly wish to.

"Did you think – even once – what this would do to Mama?" she demanded next, tears filling her eyes. "This will _kill_ her. Why do you never think of anyone but yourself?"

Anastasia's blue eyes widened. "You're not going to _tell_ her?"

"Well, _honestly_!" she huffed, tisking as if at a dirty-fingered child at mealtime. "You don't think you can go through your whole life without her finding out? What about when she and Papa find someone for you to marry? Your husband's going to know you're not..." Her beautiful face colored red with embarrassment. "Well, not..." She couldn't bring herself to finish, but the implication was plain as day.

"I'm not marrying anyone Papa picks out," she replied flatly. "Not that there's much chance of anyone wanting me _now_." Being a disposed grand duchess in exile and no longer a virgin probably made her the least desirable princess in Europe. "And I don't _care_ , either."

"Oh, _God_..." Tatiana choked on a sob.

"Tatya," Anastasia said softly, reaching for her sister as she shifted away. "Don't cry – it's all right, really."

"If I may," Dimitri cut in, hoping he could find something – _anything_ – to say that might make Tatiana stop before her sobs turned into full-on banshee levels of wailing. He hated women crying, for one thing, and someone might hear, for another.

Miraculously, Tatiana's tears – though still visibly present – silenced and their flow lessened as her eyes narrowed in on him. "No, you may not! I will deal with _you_ in a moment. Right now, I am speaking to my sister. Please stand over there until I am ready for you."

The look on Dimitri's face as he obediently backed away – the pain and frustration in it, when her own was only hot with shame and fear – surprised Anastasia, though she couldn't venture a guess as to what it meant.

"Do you even realize what you've done?" Tatiana asked her little sister brokenly. "You've put yourself in danger, you've sinned against God, you've broken our parents' hearts, ruined your prospects, _and_ you've made our lives here harder as a result of your weakness.

"The stoves wouldn't be so closely motioned if you hadn't tried to burn that nightdress. Think of all the cold nights our poor parents – and darling Alexei – suffered through because of _you_!"

"I never meant to hurt anyone," Anastasia whispered. "I was..." Lonely? Frightened? Young and in love, and thus _stupid_?

"And for _what_?" she pressed on, merciless. "So you could throw your virtue away on a servant with no honor or self control?"

Anastasia's face crumbled. What could she say? How could she ever make her understand? Or justify herself?

It was Dimitri who – despite still being out of turn and in disgrace – spoke up. "Tatiana, what's my favorite color?"

The question seemed to confuse her. " _What_?"

"You've know me since I was this high." His hand indicated somewhere near his hip. "You've given me handmade Christmas and Easter gifts every year since then. Don't you think it's a little strange you don't know what my favorite color is?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"A hell of a lot, I'd say."

Her mouth opened with no sound coming out. A servant had just used profanity in front of her.

Dimitri stepped forward out of the corner she'd sent him to like a furious governess. "I'm in exile with you, and you don't even know what my favorite color is. I never cross your mind, do I? But I would _die_ for you – for your sisters, for your brother."

" _Dimitri_ –" Anastasia had never seen her sister look so stricken before, not even after walking in on a servant kissing her little sister's exposed collarbone. She felt instinctively she ought to stop the speaker whose words were causing Tatiana such obvious distress, only she didn't know _how_.

"I would die for you, and you don't know _anything_ about me."

"That is not true," Tatiana said, finally regaining her speech. "I know as much about you as is proper."

"Don't you get it?" he snapped. "That only makes it _worse_! Hate me, show me contempt, slap me for touching your sister – I'll take your rage." He spread out his arms, gesturing down at himself, his voice rising a couple of decibels. "But don't act as if I'm not even worth that, as if I'm just a fish bowl in the corner of the room. Do you _ever_ see me? Because you _should_. Because I'm always _standing right here_!"

"What _right_ ," Tatiana demanded slowly, "do you have to speak to me this way?"

"The right of a friend, Tatiana." Anastasia defended him, reaching for his arm and hooking hers through it protectively. "He has always been our friend."

"If he was ever our friend," she said icily, her hand reaching for the doorknob. "He would have stayed away from you. He would have respected your body and your virtue."

Scowling, Anastasia clutched his arm a little tighter.

"You, Dimitri," Tatiana said next, turning the knob, Alexandra's own eyes looking out through her second daughter's, "are to leave this room at once. And don't ever let me catch you so much as looking too long at my little sister again. Anastasie, kindly let the man's arm go."

Dimitri unhooked his arm from Anastasia's to avoid a stubborn confrontational stand-off between the sisters, which he saw was in real danger of happening. Still, he could not leave without a parting remark.

"You really don't see it, _do_ you?" he asked Tatiana, over his shoulder as he made his exit. "Even Alexei sees it. Why can't _you_?"

"See what exactly?" she asked, as coldly as if she did not care.

"The way your family can come across sometimes," Dimitri sighed, a touch of despair in his voice. "You're a far cry from the monsters the revolutionaries think you are – but sometimes..." He shook his head. "Forget it." Then, "But, Tatiana, I'm not sure I ever was _your_ friend – not the way you have friends."

" _Impertinent_!" Tatiana hissed the moment she shut the door behind his departing back.

"Tatya, _please_ ," Anastasia begged, not quite knowing what she was pleading for. Understanding, perhaps. Some small sign that Tatiana was not about to rush off and compose a letter to their Mama the moment this conversation ended would have been nice. Some acknowledgment that Dimitri was as human as either of them might have been nice, also.

"Did you really think you could keep it a secret?" was Tatiana's next statement. "What if Alexei had found out?"

"He knows." She looked at her feet, her voice very small, mouse-like.

Tatiana's eyes bulged. " _How_?"

Anastasia shrugged. "He's smart, pieced it together."

"Unbelievable."

"What happens now?"

Tatiana sat down by the window and looked out. "How should _I_ know?"

"You know everything." She didn't mean for this to sound stinging, or accusatory, but it did.

"Obviously, my dear," Tatiana concluded grimly, " _everything_ isn't enough."

* * *

"Tatya," Olga whispered, sliding into her sister's cot beside her. "Talk to me. I know you aren't sleeping."

"I _can't_ sleep," Tatiana whispered back. "How could _anyone_ – with that gaping hollow where the door should be? It gives me the creeps."

"All the more reason to talk to me," Olga insisted, reaching up and rubbing Tatiana's shaking arms under the covers. "I know you're cross with me, so you might as well not pretend."

Tatiana rolled over so she could face Olga. "You _knew_ about them, I know you did."

"It wasn't that I didn't _want_ to tell you, dear..." She sighed. "But I knew you'd go straight to Mama."

"If I had, perhaps..."

"Darling, _no_ ," Olga said, still whispering but her tone firm now. "Don't do this to yourself. By the time I knew about them for _certain_ , it was already too late.

" _Think_ about that night for a moment, Tatya. Alexei was so ill, Mama so frightened, Anastasia shaken and guilty with blood on her nightdress. What good would a scene have done? I had to _protect_ our little Anastasie, not shatter whatever was left of her."

"Covering a sin is a sin in itself, you know," Tatiana argued.

"God is also compassion," was her patient, humbling reply.

"But, Olenka, _is_ it compassion to cover for them?" Her voice cracked. "Anastasia might be infatuated now, only what of their future? He can give her nothing. And they bicker _viciously_ – they always have, since they were children."

"That may be true to an extent," Olga admitted. "But if not compassion for our Anastasie, think of Alexei. Alexei loves him, too. He's the only friend our brother has left.

"Mama almost sacked Dimitri for stealing before Baby withdrew the allegation; I don't suppose even Papa could have prevented it if it had gone much further. What do you believe would happen if she knew about him and Anastasia?"

"But that is _his_ fault," Tatiana insisted bitterly. "For behavior unbefitting. Why should we have to lie and cover up to protect _his_ crimes?"

"We _shouldn't_ have to," Olga conceded. "But, alas, here we are."

"Is Anastasia listening to us now?" Tatiana asked.

"I imagine she is straining to, unless she's actually asleep."

"It isn't that I don't feel any sadness for her."

"I'm sure she knows that."

"She's going to hate me forever, I know it – but I _have_ to tell Mama."

"No, you don't." Olga propped up onto her elbow, looking down into Tatiana's weary face, half-buried in the pillow. "We don't even know where Mama _is_ right now. By the time we do, by the time we see her again, I'm sure there will be more important things to worry over."

"I think you sympathize with Anastasia a little too much," Tatiana told her flat out, rolling onto her back and staring at the ceiling. "Is it because of that Pavel fellow you used to fancy?"

"If you _must_ know, yes, remembering him when I look at Anastasia and Dimtiri _does_ help."

Tatiana turned her head. "Olga, it's not the same thing – you didn't throw your virtue away on Pavel."

"No..." Her voice was far away; it had a long distance to travel from her memories to the present. "But I know what it's like to _want_ to."

"You were strong, darling."

" _Was_ I?" Her brow lifted. "Or was I just more closely supervised as the eldest daughter? I've thought it over plenty of times, and I still don't know the answer – it's too chicken or the egg for my mind to sort out."

"If it _had_ to be one of the little pair in this mess," Tatiana concluded darkly, "I wish to God it had been Marie."

"Why do you wish that?"

"Well, Anastasia is the sort of a girl a secret romance gets into trouble – our Mashka is the opposite. I think she'd be so enraptured with the novelty of the idea, her head so far in the clouds, the relationship would never be able to progress.

"Also, she's with Mama and Papa now – if it had been _her_ and Dimitri, they'd be separated and we wouldn't have to worry about them."

Olga reached for her sister's hand and squeezed. "It is what it is, Tatya."

"Then so be it." Tatiana gave in and squeezed back, forgiving Olga her part in all this. "Dimitri said something odd to me today."

"What was it?"

"Some rubbish about how he would do anything for our family, and I don't acknowledge him." She snorted. "He was _rambling_ , really. I suppose that was the gist of it."

Olga rolled her eyes, though her sister couldn't see this in the darkness of the room. "You can be rather... _dismissive_...of him as a person."

"I am no such thing!" Tatiana cried, louder than she meant to.

" _Hush_! If Anastasia _is_ asleep by some lucky miracle, you'll wake her."

"I have never treated Dimitri badly – I've _always_ respected him. That is, until I saw him with our little sister today."

"Did you ever _tell_ him you respected him?"

"Well, no, but I don't have to – if God wanted me to address him in such a manner, he'd have made him an aristocrat and not a servant."

"Tatiana, I do believe that's the silliest thing you've ever said."

The room was still, thick with silence, for the remainder of the night.

* * *

At breakfast, Dimitri found a scrap of torn stationary paper under his silverware.

Unfolding it, he recognized the handwriting, mainly by deduction. It wasn't rushed enough to be Anastasia's trademark lazy scrawl, and it had such a perfectionism to the shape of the Cyrillic letters that it could not be Alexei's or Olga's, either.

It contained only a single word.

_Blue._


	21. A Letter From Yekaterinburg

_A Letter from Yekaterinburg_

" _Yekaterinburg_?" Tatiana puzzled aloud as she reached for the letter opener, mystified by the queer postage marks on the envelope of the first correspondence they'd received since their parents and Maria left. "What in heaven's name..."

"Open it already!" Anastasia cried, gripping the arm of a nearby chair so hard her knuckles turned white. "Don't just _stare_ at it!"

"Perhaps we should take it up to Alexei's room first," Olga suggested. "The poor darling will feel so badly about missing out."

"But it cannot be helped," Tatiana protested. "We don't know anything about this letter yet – who sent it, even. There's no sense in waking him up until we've discovered whether the news is good or bad. Best to let Baby have his nap and keep up his strength."

Anastasia snorted at this, pushing a lock of red hair away from her face. "We _know_ who it's from – that's Mashka's handwriting."

"She may have simply sealed the envelope and written the address," Tatiana pointed out.

Olga winced as Anastasia's face fell. She understood how badly poor Anastasie wanted it to be news from Maria inside – how much the little pair must be aching for one another. Tatiana didn't _mean_ to be harsh, she never truly did, but still.

Besides which, Tatiana was bias in this matter. As badly as Anastasia wanted a letter from Maria, emotionally frazzled and confused Tatya yearned for one from their Mama.

As for her own wants, Olga willed herself not to wish for a consoling, sturdy letter from Papa, miss him though she did. For the sake of the younger two, she hoped the words inside the battered envelope were from Maria or Mama, knowing either way at least _one_ of her sisters would be comforted. Her own happiness was better – and gladly – put aside for theirs.

" _Open_ it," Anastasia said again, her tone more of an outright _whine_ now.

It was revealed to be a letter from Maria after all. Olga put her hand to her heart and silently thanked God for his wonderful gift to her littlest sister as Tatiana cleared her throat, preparing to read it aloud.

_Dearest OTA,_

_I pray each night that you will join us very soon. It is too quiet without you, A – how I miss your funny faces at the table! And Mama misses you desperately, T – only_ you _can say nighttime prayers to her satisfaction. Naturally, you are missed as well, darling O._

_We are in good health, save for Mama's melancholy and Papa's hemorrhoids. If any of the three of you think it would be all right – appropriate, I mean – please ask Dr. Botkin for his advice to ease Papa's discomfort regarding this matter and send his response in your reply._

_A, Pooka remains well, but it's_ you _he wants to see each morning when he wakes and begins nosing around. He whines and sniffs about for you constantly. Once, the poor darling ducked under the dresser as if he expected to find you hiding there. A handkerchief of yours that was mistakenly packed with my things had fallen beneath it without my noticing._

 _It just about broke my heart, hearing his disappointed howls when he discovered it was only a scrap of embroidered cloth dabbed with your scent and not truly you in the flesh. I wish I could make the poor little dog understand that you are simply not here. Only, how_ can _I, when I can hardly make_ myself _accept your absence half the time?_

_Still, I doubt even you – our darling clown – could make Mama laugh, dear A. She is so sad, and the guards don't understand it at all; they're as bad as any of our old court people when it comes to reading her. They must think she is grouchy and uppity. Though, in fairness, that they help themselves to our meals before they let Papa and I serve her anything is enough to make anyone grouchy. They're like naughty little children rummaging for sweets, the sillies_ _!_

_I do have one scrap of hope to share. As I've said previously, most of the guards here are rather surly and don't wish to make friends, but one – I won't put his name here, as these letters are read over many times prior to, hopefully, reaching the three of you, and I wouldn't get him into trouble for the world – often has a kind word or smile for me._

_This smiling guard has assured me in the gentlest of terms that it is almost certain the_ very _moment Alyosha is feeling better – when he can sit up and take air outside again – the four of you will be sent here to be with us. Even though we are nowhere near Moscow and seem unlikely to go there at all now._

_You see, he has spoken to his superior, who is keeping in touch with Commissar over there. So it is bound to be the truth. It seems a silly thing to lie about._

_Love and kisses by the thousands,_

_Your Mashka_

_Postscript: Mama reminds you to keep the medicines close at all times, and to have a care to your modesty and avoid removing your corsets in a house full of men._

Olga wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. "The darling! How can she be so cheerful? It sounds absolutely dismissal over there."

"She has her smiling guard," Anastasia teased, wiggling her eyebrows. "That must make her happy – she loves grinning men in uniforms."

Rolling her eyes, Tatiana smacked Anastasia on the arm with the empty envelope. "You're one to talk!"

Looking at the letter again, Olga frowned. "Mashka's a smart girl – she numbered her letters."

"Yes, so?" Tatiana asked, a mite impatiently.

"So, this one says _four_ ," was her pensive, faintly worried reply.

"Three of her letters never reached us," Anastasia murmured.

Tatiana pressed her index, middle finger, and thumb together and lifted them to her forehead to cross herself.

"No matter, though." Anastasia resumed her happy demeanor, perhaps with a little too much zeal. "This is _good_! We're going to see them as soon as Alexei recovers! I've got to tell him! He'll be so relieved." Snatching the letter from her sisters as if it were her own personal property, she cried, "Alyosha! Alyosha!"

" _Anastasia_!" Tatiana shouted after her.

Olga gripped her shoulder and held her back. "No, Tatya, don't stop her."

"She's behaving like a mad child – there's so much we still don't..."

"I know, but let her have this," Olga urged, squeezing the shoulder she still grasped. "Baby, too. Let her wake him if this news will give him the strength to recover faster."

"How _can_ you be so sacrificing?" Tatiana sighed in near-wonderment. "To carry all the worry on yourself and let the younger ones just play at being happy..." Her voice trailed off.

"Oh, Tatya, my dear." She smiled tightly. "Don't you know I'm used to it by now?"

* * *

Anastasia burst through the half-closed door and into Alexei's room. She was out of breath, from racing up the stairs, and much of her hair had fallen loose from a ribbon she'd tied it back with earlier. Sweat from her palm as she ran had left the letter in her hand with a small series of gray smudges, plainly visible as she held it out in front of herself like it was the holy grail.

Dimitri had been sitting by Alexei's bedside, springing to his feet when he saw Anastasia's wild state.

"We've gotten word, finally!" she exclaimed. "From Maria. She and my parents are safe."

Dimitri sighed with relief. "Thank God."

"There's more," she pressed on, eyes shining. "They _are_ sending us after them as soon as Alexei is better!"

Dimitri grinned and, as if he was scarcely thinking about what he was doing, threw his arms around Anastasia's waist, lifted her off the floor, and spun her around.

She let out a whoop of surprised delight as he set her down, still looking elated.

" _Phew_ , you're a bit heavier than I thought," he laughed. ( _That_ would be the corset loaded with jewels, though he didn't know it.) Then, "We'll all be safer in Moscow."

For a moment, Anastasia was confused. _Moscow_? Then she remembered Dimitri hadn't seen the envelope, the postmarks. "No, not Moscow. They never reached there."

Dimitri's smile faded, his face darkening. "Then where are they?"

"Yekaterinburg."

His eyes widened. "You're certain?"

"Fairly," she managed shakily, not liking the intense – almost outraged – look still forming on his face. "What is it?" Wasn't he glad?

"Ana, Yekaterinburg is _swarming_ with Reds."

"Yes, so is most of Russia right now – including this house," she said offhandedly, her gaze darting to Alexei's heavily slumbering form. All their excitement hadn't stirred him. "We should wake him and tell him."

" _Stop_. You're not getting it." Dimitri reached over and grasped her shoulders. "Yekaterinburg is the _worst_ place in the _entire damn country_ they could have sent a former imperial family."

Her brow furrowed, Anastasia blinked at him. "I'm sure there's a reason."

"Oh, so am I," he scoffed, "just not a very good one – at least, not for us."

"If it will make you feel better, maybe I could ask Gleb about it."

Dimitri gave her a withering, emotionally exhausted stare. "Sure," he quipped sarcastically. " _That_ will allay all my fears."

"Well, you don't _know_ Yekaterinburg's bad," she argued, growing defensive. "Not for certain. You've heard a rumor, or..."

"Whatever, Ana." With a weary sigh, he turned away from her and started picking up things – mainly linens and stray clothing of Alexei's – off the floor and out of the corners.

Anastasia clenched her jaw, willing herself not to cry. This should be a _happy_ occasion! Why couldn't Dimitri _see_ that? Wherever they were headed, it couldn't be worse than being here, uncertain what the Bolsheviks meant to do with them, wholly isolated from the rest of their family.

Twice, she reached down to shake Alexei awake. Twice, she stayed her hand. Stupid, infuriating Dimitri, putting doubts into her head at a time like this!

Groaning, she finally settled down grimly – still sulking – into the chair Dimitri had vacated in favor of neurotically doing his chores like an anxious housewife.

She would _wait_ for Alexei to wake, yes, but _then_ she'd tell him – in as happy a tone as originally intended – the wonderful news.

After a few more minutes in silence, Anastasia gradually became aware Dimitri was singing to himself – perhaps for some small comfort – under his breath. It was a patriotic tune, one she knew well from the old days at the Catherine Palace, but it was literally about Russia itself, nothing to do with the upper class or peasants, or anyone's position in life.

Yet he sang as low and carefully as if it was _God Save The Tsar_ and he might get into trouble if overheard.

Suddenly overcome with a desire to get him to raise his voice – sing like he actually _meant_ it – she reached for Alexei's balalaika and began to pick out the tune.

Out of her peripheral vision, she noticed the corners of his mouth turn up as he realized what she was doing. His singing readily improved, keeping up with the pace of her playing, and she harmonized with him on the chorus.

As a kind of joke, she sped up a part that was meant to be slower, just to see if he'd manage to keep in tune. He did, though he gave her a raised eyebrow while doing so – as if to assure her he knew exactly what trick she was up to.

Shrugging, she returned to the natural pace of the song and let him sing normally again.

Alexei's eyelids crinkled, and a smile played on his lips. The music was reaching him in that sacred place between sleeping and waking, welcoming him back into the world with a sweetness his constant pain never did.

When his eyes opened, Dimitri's voice petered off and Anastasia's fingers left off playing.

"Alyosha, I have wonderful news," she said, reaching over the bridge of the balalaika to touch his slightly damp brow.

"Whatever it is," came a deep, gruff voice from the doorway, "can _wait_. We want to hear more music. Don't we, Comrades?"

Several guards had crowded against the door, lulled there by the singing and balalaika playing, and were less than thrilled she and Dimitri had stopped so abruptly.

* * *

Whether because of the news that he would soon be reunited with his parents, or else because it was simply time, Alexei did begin quickly improving.

Doctor Botkin as well – the aching in his kidneys faded and he soon returned to himself, as competent and alert as ever.

Still, Botkin was clever and – despite Alexei's eagerness – urged the boy to milk his illness a while longer.

"It will allow your sisters more time to pack, and more time for your body to recover _properly_ ," he explained in a low whisper as he leaned over in the guise of feeling for Alexei's pulse. "If you are weak and dizzy, as you're very likely to be, the men here won't care a wit about that – they're restless, and want us gone from Tobolsk as quickly as possible.

"The very _moment_ your bottom touches your wheelchair, they'll be buzzing about here, shouting into my ears as if I'm deaf, demanding to know if you're fully recovered." He made a face of pure disgust at the thought of the guards' crude stupidity. "Give it another day," he urged, gently patting the boy's head. "It won't hurt anything."

* * *

In the dining room, Anastasia had been packing some sparse china plates from a set that belonged to Alexandra when she realized she was out of paper to stuff the sides of the crate with. Returning to the bedroom for more, she found herself blocked from exiting the way she'd come in, her sisters standing in front of her, faces lined with concerned, arms crossed.

"What is it?" she asked, her tone a little perturbed.

"Anastasie, we need to ask you something very important," Olga told her, swallowing hard. "It's about your diary."

"My... _diary_...?" she faltered.

"Did you write anything about hiding the jewels?" was Olga's next question. "Even just once?"

Tatiana jumped in. "Or your... _relationship_...with Dimitri?"

Anastasia's face flushed red. Of course she had. Unlike her sisters – with the exception of Olga – she was _good_ at hiding her diary, so it never occurred to her to worry about anyone else finding and reading it.

It was nearly all in there – the jewels, Dimitri's vows to her, their one night together, both her guilt and elation resulting from the aforementioned night... Just about _everything_. She didn't censor herself when it came to her diary. Her most risqué thoughts sat side by side with dull lists of mundane activities and humorous observations.

"I see." Olga read the look on her little sister's face as plainly as if she had spoken and confessed to each word she'd written. "Then you must burn it."

Blanching, her heart in her throat, Anastasia blurted, "But _why_?"

"Commissar is going to have our bags searched and correspondences confiscated before we leave," Tatiana explained, sounding outraged and coloring quite a bit in the face herself. "He says he needs to be sure we are not stealing from this house."

"Really, though," Olga added in a tart, clipped voice, "he's most likely only looking for something to incriminate Mama and Papa."

"But that won't matter," Tatiana continued, "if he finds something else. He cannot know about the jewels, or all Mama's efforts were for nothing."

"Furthermore," Olga said, "if they find out about Dimitri, what he _really_ is to you... Well, that wouldn't be too good for any of us. So, Tatya will watch the doorway and whistle if any guards come." She pointed to the stove. "You'd best stick that diary – and anything else that might give us away – in there while we've still got the chance."

"How do I know," stammered Anastasia, bewildered, "if something...?"

"I'll help," Olga promised, putting her arm around her. "We'll burn it all."

And so they did. Every page of Anastasia's diary, every single word, was pushed into the hot coals until it burst into flames and was no more. The cover was discarded with the rubbish.

Remembering that hers was the only diary Dimitri existed inside of as a complete, named entity, brought tears to Anastasia's eyes. It was as if she were erasing him from the story of their lives.

"I know it's silly," she croaked, as she mopped her streaming eyes with the lacy cuff of her sleeve. "It's just words..."

"Oh, darling, it's _never_ just words..." Olga murmured into her ear consolingly. "You will have other diaries in your life, but you'll never get back what you've written about your first love. Your first time. I understand that. You're making a grand sacrifice, like a real heroine."

"I'm _sick to death_ of being a heroine," she moaned. "It's every bit as awful as being a princess."

"Of course it is," she agreed, rubbing her on the back. "But that's our lot in life right now."

"So what next?" Anastasia wanted to know, sniffling and smoothing out her skirt as she got off her knees. "What else has to go?"

"Don't be cross, but Mashka mentioned your sketchbook to me before she left." Olga grimaced. "If it has half as many drawings of Dimitri as she claimed, at least some of them have to go – the quantity alone could tip off the guards."

Nodding, Anastasia marched to the other side of the room to fetch it. "Here, get rid of them _all_ if you need to. I drew him too fat, anyway."


	22. The Last Inspection In Tobolsk

_The Last Inspection In Tobolsk_

In spite of the fact that he knew perfectly well who they all were, Commissar ordered the ex-grand duchesses, their wheelchair-confined brother, and few remaining servants (consisting of Doctor Botkin, Alexei's English and French tutors, Dimitri, an emotionally demented cook who never moved a single facial muscle, and a couple of chambermaids) to line up and show him the picture identification cards he'd reissued to them the day before.

Anastasia tried her best not to let it get to her. After all, they were leaving. _Finally_. They might never see Commissar's ugly mug again, if they were lucky. Soon, she'd be reunited with her beloved Mashka. The world would make some sort of sense again.

All the same, she couldn't resist screwing up her face and sticking her tongue out briefly when Commissar turned his back to her.

Catching this, Tatiana elbowed her in a curt reminder that the guards might see her mocking the Commissar and tattle.

On the other side of her – placed above the doctor in line, despite his technically lower rank, so that he could stand behind Alexei's wheelchair – Dimitri had to bite down hard on his lower lip to avoid laughing and giving her away. His eyes bulged slightly and he turned his head away. If he'd met her eyes, not looking away in the very nick of time, Anastasia felt certain he'd have busted a gut trying to hold back his amusement.

As if to show as much disrespect for their former positions as possible, Commissar demanded identification from the servants before the royal girls, starting with the chambermaids – the lowest on the totem pole.

Satisfied that the chambermaids were who they said they were, and that they'd taken nothing from the house, he nodded with mild disinterest and moved along up the line.

The cook and tutors evidently passed scrutiny as well, so Botkin and Dimitri were next.

From Botkin, Commissar confiscated a silver flask and an allegedly 'questionable' letter from the poor doctor's daughter, then waved him off. "All is in order with you, Comrade. Nothing too concerning at this time."

Perhaps because Dimitri was still struggling to keep a straight face and his lips were stretched into a thin, upwards line, making him look rather smug, Commissar took more time with him. He was convinced the ex-tsarevich's companion was concealing something important from him.

"We'll see about this," he muttered gruffly, not quite under his breath. " _Comrade_." He beckoned a guard with a stubbly face forward. "Check this man."

The guard snatched Dimitri's small carpet bag from his hand – almost snapping the weak wooden handle in two while doing so – and dug through it, finding nothing but clothing, a man's hat, and worn, scuffed shoes.

Tossing the bag aside with grunt, the guard then growled for Dimitri to lift his arms and began patting him down as if he expected some concealed rubles or weapons to be on his person. He found nothing like that, of course, but – searching the pockets of his greatcoat, he did find the gold watch Nicholas had given him on Alexei's behalf.

The guard muttered something about feeling a 'sort of small, gritty object' – maybe sand or a tiny pebble – and it scratching his hand, but the watch took whatever it was out of his mind immediately.

He whistled, holding it up to the light. "Gold and diamonds on this, Commissar."

The commissar pocketed the watch at once. " _Evidence_ ," he called it, officially, though all present knew it was probably going to be sold to line his own wallet very soon.

The guard stuck his hand into Dimitri's other pocket, finding only a scrap of paper. It might have been a promising discovery for a second there, disappointing him deeply when he realized it was only a single, neatly-written word in Russian and not an incriminating encoded letter in a foreign language.

Cussing, he crumpled it and tossed it onto the – slightly sticky – floor. " _Trash_."

As soon as the guard stepped away from him, Dimitri squatted down, picked the crumpled paper up, and slipped it back into his pocket.

Seeing this scene unfold made Anastasia's heart beat faster. She was holding out her identification card with one hand, the other currently behind her back, trying – perhaps stupidly – to conceal her precious music box.

She had been unable to pack it, thanks to these raids on their luggage and person, but also couldn't bear to leave it behind. Either way, the thought of one of these guards – even Gleb – fiddling with her present from her long-unseen Grandmama infuriated her, leaving her at complete impasse. Tatiana had been furious with her for sneaking the box down here, yet even she seemed to know it was too much to ask Anastasia to willingly give it up. No, it would have to be taken from her little sister by force.

Nothing else would part her from that which she loved so dearly – that which had only one key, currently hidden in her corset.

In a moment of desperation, Anastasia formed a plan. They'd already searched Dimitri, given him the all-clear. She was sorry about his watch – especially as it had once belonged to her Papa – but maybe this was an opportunity. Leaning over, in the guise of shifting wearily from one foot to the other, she slipped her hand into Dimitri's coat pocket for a fraction of a second and dropped the music box inside its folds.

When Commissar demanded to know what she was hiding behind her back, she smiled innocently and showed her empty hand, wiggling her fingers for dramatic effect. _Ta-da._

While Anastasia and Olga got off with only their bags searched and an order to empty their pockets (that currently had nothing in them but handkerchiefs, anyway) voluntarily, Tatiana was not so fortunate.

The guard who had frisked Dimitri – clearly a little drunk, despite the fact that it was early morning and he was on duty – had begun leering at Nicholas' second daughter while Commissar continued examining identification cards and pretended not to notice.

This guard then made a stink about supposedly believing that Tatiana was hiding something.

"The shorter girl's hand was only empty," he accused, jabbing his finger at them, "because she passed something to this tall one – I _saw_ her do it!"

"That's a dirty _lie_!" Anastasia snapped, putting her hands on her hips. She hadn't even been leaning toward Tatiana – she'd have never been able to reach Dimitri's pocket leaning that way. _Idiots_.

"Nonetheless, an accusation has been made and will be addressed." Commissar shrugged. "Search her if you must, Comrade."

Tatiana rolled her eyes upward, trying not to look as the tipsy guard clumsily groped the waistline of her coat, pressing himself far closer to her than was necessary.

In a flash, the guard's hand shot up towards her bosom in a movement he doubtless hoped – and assumed – would be ignored. Probably he thought he would tell all his comrades about the time he'd touched the breasts of the daughter of Bloody Nicholas.

But he never made contact.

Before she could even think what to do for her sister, Anastasia saw Dimitri step out of line and around Alexei's wheelchair.

He then reached around her and snatched the guard's wrist, pulling it back with as much force as he dared use. " _Enough_."

The guard's eyes narrowed as Dimitri let him go. " _What_ do you say to me, you Tsarist son of a bitch?"

"I said _enough_." He swallowed, staring the down the guard. "They aren't hiding anything, and you don't have the right to put your hands on any of these girls."

Unslinging his rifle from over his left shoulder, the guard smashed the butt directly into the center of Dimitri's face.

All three girls and their brother heard his nose break upon impact. It cracked loudly enough that it echoed through the hallway. Olga's hands flew to her mouth; Tatiana gasped; Anastasia screamed his name; Alexei yelped, shaking like a leaf in a windstorm.

"Talk to me again, you boot-licking piece of shit, and I'll shove my bayonet so far up your ass the doctor will have to operate to remove it," the guard spat. " _Understood_?"

Dimitri had fallen down from the unexpected blow to the face and was currently hunched over, pressed against the nearest wall, clutching at his bloodied nose.

Snarling like a wild animal, Anastasia charged at – and would have violently attacked – the guard if Olga and Tatiana hadn't promptly regained their composure, grabbing her arms and holding her back.

Alexei had moved on, from yelping, to openly sobbing so hard that his breath was coming out in short raspy pants, leaving him in a near state of hyperventilation. But there was no one – for once in his life – free to rush to his side and comfort him, to tell him everything would be okay.

Perhaps, Anastasia later thought, that was what scared the poor boy most of all; even more than the unwarranted attack on his only friend.

Commissar reacted as though the guard had merely spilled a glass of iced tea at an inopportune moment.

He sighed, as if this violent turn of events mildly disappointed him. "This won't do, Comrade."

"Where do you get–" began the guard, before he was cut off.

"If there is going to be this much turmoil the whole trip to Yekaterinburg, I would have someone else lead the party escorting them."

Anastasia's face flushed anew. This vile man was supposed to be going on the journey _with_ them? Thank God she had not known; or she'd have been incensed and disgusted, and even – though she'd never admit it – a little frightened as well.

"But–"

Commissar held up a hand. "I understand you need this job, Comrade, I do. But my task is to get them there safe and well – if a fight breaks out between you and these children, it will reflect poorly on _me_. If their tempers provoke you, you are not the man for the job – simple as that."

" _Our_ tempers?" spluttered Anastasia, to no response, save from her tensing sisters who were still holding her by either arm.

" _Hush_ ," Olga whispered into her ear.

"I think it best if Comrade Vagonov escorts them in your place," Commissar added, pensively, stroking his chin. "Gleb is one of the most dutiful of our party I've ever met, and the man does seem to have a professional rapport with the family – polite, distant, helpful... I have received no direct complaints on his behalf.

"Strangely, as it happens, I was meaning to suggest posting him at Yekaterinburg anyway. Yes, I think this new arrangement will do well enough."

Glaring at Tatiana as if the whole incident, including the loss of his job, was _her_ fault, the guard stomped off.

As soon as he'd left, safely out of Anastasia's reach, her sisters let her go.

"You fight like a mad bull," Tatiana complained, releasing her grip with obvious relief. "What good did you think clouting that awful man would have done?"

There was no reply; Anastasia was no longer standing with them.

"Anastasie?" Olga called, turning around.

She was already crouched beside Dimitri, trying to use her handkerchief to clot the blood still streaming from his nose.

The chambermaids were whispering about what a 'surprisingly big heart' the youngest sister had, fussing so much over her brother's companion, while Botkin crouched at Dimitri's other side, trying to ascertain the damage.

This proved a touch difficult, with Anastasia's handkerchief in the way and her unwillingness to move.

Tatiana came next, kneeling in front of him and examining his face along with the doctor.

"To answer your question," Anastasia said offhandedly, "I wasn't going to _clout_ that guard – I was going to break _his_ nose and see how _he_ liked it."

"All right, Dimitri; I'm going to set your nose back in place," Tatiana told him, looking grim. "It will hurt a lot, but only for a second." She motioned at Botkin and Anastasia. "Squeeze their hands if you need to."

" _Anastasia_ ," Olga hissed, crouching and putting her hand on her little sister's shoulder blade. "Back up a bit and let Tatiana and Botkin help already! You'll suffocate him."

Alexei – his sobs finally tapering off – coughed pointedly, expectantly, with his eyebrows raised all the way up; but no one wheeled his chair over to the others.

Next, Tatiana gripped Dimitri's face with one hand and pushed his nose back into place with the other.

He swore involuntarily – looking right into her eyes as he said it – but she seemed to forgive him that one.

Lack of propriety might have been something beyond Tatiana's comprehension, but physical pain in a fellow human being was not. When he was in pain like this, Dimitri was no piece of furniture, no fishbowl. He was a fellow sufferer – one of God's oppressed, martyred creations being held over the refining pot a little too long.


	23. The Doctor & The Children

_The Doctor & The Children_

As the train neared the station at Yekaterinburg, Dimitri found himself remembering – with a kind of blasé longing – the train rides to Livadia, so very long ago.

The moving pictures; the dining cart; Alexei playing with Bartok; Tsarina Alexandra reading her gilded Bible by the window of grandest compartment, a rare smile on her lips; the tsar and Vlad smoking and drinking; the laughter.

Most of all, _above_ all, the laughter.

The pain in his nose (which had bruised badly), even after being set neatly back into place (with every chance to heal correctly, according to Botkin), had made him cross and uninvolved in whatever the girls were talking about during the earliest parts of their journey.

(That had been back on the boat – the _Rus_ again – which brought them close enough to travel to the first station.)

But the one thing he had noticed about the girls was their continued dour misery. There was some fuss over more of their possessions being stolen, though which ones he couldn't have said, as it was hard focusing on their conversation for long enough to find out. Not that it mattered now – there was hardly anything left _worth_ stealing. They'd been so stripped of all but the barest necessities.

Still, he understood. The loss of that watch chafed him. It was the only expensive gift anyone had ever given him for keeps. Regardless of the dark reason _why_ it had been given to him, it meant something.

Beyond understanding their reasons, though, it was hard to _care_ very much. So they were sad. When were they _not_ these days?

Perhaps much of Dimitri's onset of melancholy had to do with the medicines Doctor Botkin gave him for the pain in his nose – which had radiated out onto other parts of his face, seemingly at random.

At first, he had argued that he didn't want any – didn't want to be so groggy and stupid he couldn't help the girls if another guard tried something inappropriate – but then the pain had gotten so bad he'd have drunk seawater to distract himself from it.

By that point, he was practically _begging_ Botkin to drug him.

All he remembered after that was a tennis-match kind of effect. One minute, he wouldn't have cared if a bus hit him. The next, he was so paranoid and upset he thought he'd go completely to pieces.

It didn't help that he saw Gleb and Anastasia whispering and exchanging papers frequently on the _Rus_ while the other guards who'd come along mainly kept to themselves.

That had only exacerbated his growing paranoia that Gleb was trying to steal her from him and her family.

He tried to remember what she'd said, about how she'd never take help from a Bolshie, but he couldn't quite make himself believe it.

By the time they'd gotten to the train, his paranoia had cooled somewhat. Botkin had begun lowering his dosage bit by bit, leaving Dimitri with more moments of clarity. The fog that filled his head for most of their time on the Rus had mercifully dissipated.

Across from him, Olga sat with her head leaning against Tatiana's shoulder. Beside them, Doctor Botkin smoked a pipe (Dimitri made a mental note to ask the good doctor where he'd gotten the tobacco from), puffing pensively.

The chambermaids were playing cards with Alexei's tutors. From the sound of it, Gilliard was winning the current hand and was being a touch smug about it, causing Gibbes to accuse him of cheating.

The guards were off in another compartment, possibly playing cards themselves, probably for money. They did seem to have an unhealthy love of gambling.

On either side of him, Dimitri was dimly aware of the duel – unnaturally silent – presences of Alexei and Anastasia.

Normally, there were few worse places to be sitting on a long journey than directly between them. They were always leaning over whoever sat in the middle to talk excitedly to one another. Their cheerful voices loved to regale each other with minute-by-minute descriptions of every detail along the way. They were rather like song birds, trilling back and forth as if they lived in a perpetual summer's day.

This time, however, there was nothing to be said. They barely looked at each other, except – just occasionally – in a small turn of the head, with widened eyes, as if seeking reassurance.

Reassurance that – for the first time in their short lives – they could not find in each others' eyes.

It was horrible, and Dimitri wanted to say something to break this eerie silence, to bring them back to their old selves. Maybe, also, to apologize for not being there with them in spirit as well as body during the majority of this ghastly trip.

His mouth felt like it was filled with fluff; his head still swam. His lips parted, several times, but no sound came out.

The train coasted to a stop. Guards opened the compartment doors, revealing a wooden wagon pulled by a pair of – remarkably smelly – donkeys, who looked about a hundred years old. Dimitri half expected the poor, lice-ridden beasts to keel over before they made it off the train, let alone into the wagon.

Olga and Tatiana, followed by Botkin and Anastasia, were the first off the train.

Hastily, the guards ushered the Romanov sisters over to the wagon. One of them offered Tatiana his hand to help her up, but she waved it off. Dimitri couldn't hear what the man said to her after that. He did notice the guard's overall demeanor had changed completely upon receiving this rejection, though. And that he spat at the nearest wagon wheel to show his contempt.

 _That_ , of course, did not bode well.

Dimitri wished Tatiana were ugly and looked nothing like Alexandra. Olga – though far from ugly – didn't seem to have these kinds of problems, and Dimitri really didn't want to get his face rearranged over this nonsense _again_.

Botkin waited below for Dimitri to lower Alexei into his arms so that he could carry him to the wagon and Dimitri could, in turn, get down from the train himself.

An officer who had apparently driven the cart here to meet them stationed himself beside Botkin. Olga and Anastasia leaned curiously over the sides of the wagon, trying to see what he was up to, while Tatiana stared straight ahead, looking a little lost inside of herself.

As soon as Alexei was in Botkin's arms, the world seemed to come to a smashing halt around them in a silent explosion.

Not so much as the toe of Dimitri's boot ever touched the platform. As he started to lower himself, a burly hand – the officer's – shoved him backwards. " _Nyet_." No. "Only the children and the doctor."

Suddenly at Dimitri's side, Gilliard and Gibbes began protesting frantically. The chambermaids, realizing their jobs were in jeopardy, started shrieking complaints. Everything from that the Romanov girls couldn't go anywhere with only the doctor – that they needed proper supervision, _surely_ – to statements regarding their own lack of knowledge of the immediate area, how they simply could not be abandoned _here_.

But Dimitri could process none of their bemoaning. All he could hear was the pounding of his own heart. He saw the word _no_ on the guard's lips more than heard it.

_No._

Just like that.

Except it didn't make sense. He had to go with them. He _had_ to. They were...he was...they were his _family_. The Romanovs had plucked him from under the thumb of an abusive cook at too early an age for him to understand any life other than one of being at their side always.

Alexei needed him.

And _Anastasia_...

He met her frightened blue eyes as she all but threw her torso over the side of the wagon, gaping at him helplessly, her arm outstretched in his direction.

They could not seriously be asking him to abandon her.

No. That was true, actually. They weren't _asking_. They were telling him he had no choice.

"Please, sir," Botkin tried, his trembling, gloved hand hovering above the officer's shoulder as if he wanted to appeal to the man's humanity but was afraid to touch him and discover he _had_ none. "At least the companion and the tutors. The family can clean for themselves, if called upon to do so, but they cannot–"

" _Silence_ ," the officer barked, holding up a bayonet in warning. "My orders were the children and the doctor. No one else. These other persons..." He wrinkled his nose as if they were merely rats crawling about the compartment, squealing to get out. "These other persons shall be detained here until further notice."

With that, armed men began to slide the compartment door shut, separating these loyal servants from their masters without even giving them a moment to say goodbye.

Dimitri tried to keep Anastasia's face in his view as long as possible, losing her too soon regardless of his best efforts. The last things he heard, before he was plunged into the darkness of the compartment along with the tutors and the maids, were Alexei's bloodcurdling screams for him as Botkin numbly carried the traumatized boy to the wagon.

* * *

When Alexei started screaming his head off as the compartment door was shut, locking his companion inside, Anastasia wanted to be shouting Dimitri's name right along with him.

Instead, she found that all she could do was take her – now weeping and convulsing – little brother into her arms and try her best to comfort him as the donkeys were whipped until they started moving down the uneven road.

Alexei kept shouting in a demanding tone – one far below his chronological age – that would not be muffled in the slightest, right up until the moment his hoarse voice gave out.

" _Ana_ ," he rasped, in the silence his own shortage of breath had created. "What do you think they'll do to them?"

"I don't know, Alyosha." Her arms locked around him felt like lead. She couldn't move, could hardly breathe.

This couldn't be happening. Dimitri was supposed to be _with_ them when they reunited with Mashka, Papa, and Mama. This wasn't meant to be a case of sacrificing one love for another. She shouldn't have been wishing herself back in Tobolsk just to have him beside her.

Her eyes shifted to her sisters. Olga looked like somebody had drained years of her life away. Her face was white as a sheet, lips colorless. She kept gawking helplessly at Alexei, then at Anastasia. Her one thought was on display in her hollow eyes. _What do I do for them? What do I_ do _?_

Tatiana stared straight ahead, unblinking, but to Anastasia's great shock there were enormous tears running down her beautiful face, falling like rain.

"Ana," Alexei whispered, clutching at his sister, willing her not to let go of him. "Sing me Grandmama's lullaby. The one from your music box."

She bent over and kissed his hairline, then complied. " _On the wind, cross the sea_..." Her voice shook; she swallowed back the lump in her throat. "... _hear this song and remember_..."

Her brother's steady tears – as unending as Tatiana's now – soaked the collar of her blouse.

" _Soon you'll be...home with me... Once upon a December..._ "

"We're never going home," Alexei croaked as she faded out. " _Never._ Not in a _year_ of Decembers."

_No, no, Alyosha, don't say that – we mustn't give up hope._

Those were the words she was supposed to say – the right, sisterly response – but she couldn't bring herself to utter them.

For her own home, she realized brokenly, hadn't been lost to her when they left the Catherine Palace. It had come with her to Tobolsk, tried to follow her even here, only to be detained at a Siberian train station.

* * *

The wagon came to a stop in front of a double-fence leading to rather a fine house.

In another time, under different circumstances, this house – elegant with its curved basement windows and almost Gothic architecture – might have been the home of a cheerful merchant-class family.

In that other life, Anastasia thought, Maria would be playing with that merchant's children, and they – the royal family – would be here as honored guests, not prisoners.

And all their people would have not only been _allowed_ to come, but _welcome_. Open arms and servant quarters would have greeted them. They'd have been in a carriage, not a wooden cart, and Alexei – tired from the long journey – would be asleep with his head on Dimitri's shoulder right now.

Anastasia forced herself to stop thinking about that – it was making her chest constrict painfully.

Boktin lifted Alexei down from the cart.

"Doesn't it hurt your kidneys?" Alexei murmured, in a weak, concerned voice. "Carrying me, lifting me up so much?"

"Pain is a part of life, child, as you well know," he replied softly. "Don't worry about me. We'll have you in your chair soon anyway, yeah?"

"Isn't anyone here to meet us?" Tatiana demanded, scanning the empty yard with bloodshot eyes.

"Where's Papa?" came from Olga, pathetically, before she could remember to restrain herself.

The guards that had accompanied them began carrying in their luggage – such as was left of it. All except Gleb, who – without a word – meekly offered his arm to help Anastasia down from the cart.

Initially, she refused it – irrationally peeved at him, as if he had had something to do with Dimitri's being left behind – only to stumble as she tried to get down on her own.

He caught her. "Careful, Comrade."

She nodded her thanks. "It was higher than I thought, and I'm a little lightheaded."

"I can imagine," he said. "After your ordeal today. You were..." He coughed to clear his throat. "You were very brave."

"It wasn't only _my_ ordeal, Gleb." Her eyes darted to Alexei, still in Botkin's arms. "We were all brave." They'd had no choice but to be.

A man came out of the house, then. He was, to Anastasia's taste at least, quite an unsightly fellow. His bushy, crinkly beard – not trimmed and combed like her Papa's – reminded her, disgustingly, of pubic hair.

His brows were bushy, too, but they were all right. What was unnerving about him was the pair of eyes _under_ those ugly brows. They were the kind of eyes you'd expect to find watching you from underneath a rock.

One of Dimitri's childhood thoughts rang through her head every time this man's dark gaze met hers: _This man has no soul._

"You are the daughters and son of Citizen Romanov?" the man asked, his voice surprisingly low.

Tatiana held out her identification card.

He didn't take it. "Yes, yes. We have been expecting you."

"Sir, if my brother's wheelchair could be brought out..." Olga requested wearily. "It has been a long trip, the doctor is exhausted, and we've had a nasty shock. Our people were left behind, you see; loyal servants who have always been with–"

"You will have no need of servants here," the man said flatly, cutting her off. "But of course your brother may have his chair." He snapped his fingers at the officer who'd brought them. "Comrade, fetch it, if you would be so good."

The officer saluted him. "Yes, sir."

"Now, then, if there is nothing else," the man went on, "I shall introduce myself."

 _No soul, but still a_ name _?_ Anastasia found herself thinking, mildly befuddled. Perhaps it was not really so odd as it felt – even the devil must have had a name once, after all.

"I am Yakov Yurovsky," he said, without even the slightest change of facial expression, not so much as the smallest twitch. "Welcome to the House of Special Purpose."


	24. Reunion

_Reunion_

The grim feeling that had settled over the four Romanov children as Yurovsky – indifferent as the wind to their fear and discomfort – led them inside vanished, if only for a little while, when they saw the rest of their family waiting.

As soon as Anastasia caught sight of Maria, everything that came before ceased to matter. She shrieked, " _Mashka_!" and rushed at her other half like a mad bull.

For her part, Maria showed no more restraint than her little sister, throwing out her arms and lifting the elated girl off her feet, spinning her around, clinging to her with a tight bear-hug.

The pair laughed and wailed and cried out a million different things at once, trying to tell one another everything.

"My letters, you got them? I wrote as often as I _could_!"

"It was so awful, after you left!"

"I thought of you everyday!"

"You wouldn't believe all that's happened – not if I had a _thousand years_ to tell you!"

They were still spinning around and squealing when Pooka, getting wind of his true owner's presence, came darting out at their ankles, knocking them over.

The thin carpet on the floor cushioned the impact. Being so enthralled with their reunion, they barely noticed anyway, still shouting out to each other as if they were yelling across an ocean despite being tangled in each others' arms.

Making whining noises, Pooka proceeded to latch his jaw onto Anastasia's left boot-heel as if it were a juicy rat he'd just found in the middle of the room, shaking her foot back and forth.

Alexandra almost told them to keep it down, except – not only did she not have the heart to say much more than " _Girls_!" in reprimand – she was soon distracted by a sobbing Tatiana clinging to her for dear life. "Oh, _Mama_! I've been so worried I wouldn't see you again!"

Alexei locked his arms around his crouching Papa's neck. The only words the scared boy seemed able to form were, "Thank you, God, _thank you_ ," over and over again. Such a far cry from the dignified, accepting salute Alexei had given his father when he returned from abdicating the throne. That long-lost day, so near the beginning of this darkness, felt like a lifetime ago now.

"My son," Nicholas choked out, stroking his hair. "My _Sunbeam_."

Watching these exchanges, Olga stood with her hand over her mouth. She wanted to be praising God, too. At last they were safe, for all they'd suffered and lost.

They were together.

How little everything else seemed to matter in light of that.

Whatever happened, however dismal the days to come would be, they were all together.

A tremendous weight was being lifted off her weakening shoulders. Alexei had Papa; Tatiana, Mama; the little pair had each other. It didn't occur to her to wonder who _she_ had; for she had them all, their relief and happiness, and that was enough for her. Olga did not require exclusivity from any member of her beloved family. That simply wasn't the way her self-sacrificing heart worked.

All the same, her happiness was only truly complete when Nicholas let go of Alexei, looking to her with his gentlest smile. "Have you no embrace for your Papa, too, Olenka?"

"Papa, of _course_ I do!" She threw herself into his arms, relishing the feel of his bearded kiss on her cheek and the smell of stale tobacco wafting off his clothes.

After a bit they traded off, Tatiana hugging Papa, and Olga slipping into their mother's waiting arms.

Then of course, Alexandra had to squeeze Alexei to her heaving bosom as tightly as she dared – naturally fearing any bruises she might cause with her outpouring of affection – weeping, "My Baby, my precious Baby."

It took a long time for the little pair to let go of one another – indeed, their older sisters were beginning to think they'd have to find a crowbar to separate them ever again after this – but when they finally did, Anastasia hugged their Mama and Papa, too.

"Darling _Shvibzik_ ," Nicholas murmured into her hair. "We've been very unhappy without your practical jokes."

Eventually, Yurovsky scolded them for being too loud and disturbing the guards and neighbors alike.

"I need not remind you, Citizen Romanov," he warned, wagging his index finger accusingly, "how crucial it is to your continued safety that you remain as inconspicuous as possible."

And Nicholas bowed his head – this man who was once Tsar of all Russia – and mumbled an apology to this scowling Yurovsky, not even protesting that they hadn't even known for certain the rest of their family would be arriving today until less than an hour ago – that they were understandably excited – his face gone a humiliated shade of crimson.

Horrified, Anastasia scooped up Pooka with one arm and reached for Maria's hand with her free one.

Silently, she asked, in the way that close sisters can, _Is it_ always _like this here?_

Maria's squeeze in return replied, _No, my dear, sometimes it is far, far worse._

* * *

That night, because the guards didn't get around to bringing in the three cots that had been with their Swiss-cheese luggage (as in, it was despairingly full of holes and gaps from being so thoroughly looted), Olga and Tatiana slept on a pile of coats and stray pillows on the floor while Maria shared her cot with Anastasia.

Maria, contented to have her dear little sister back at last, fell asleep quickly.

Tatiana and Olga followed suit, even with the uncomfortable bedding arrangements; but sleep evaded Anastasia.

She was afraid that if she fell asleep, and dreamed about Dimitri, she would have to wake up and find him gone – have to remember that he'd been left behind at the station, his fate uncertain.

Knowing it, having lived through it, was bad enough – forgetting and then remembering was more than she thought she could stand.

What if they shot him or something? What if they put him – and the poor tutors and chambermaids – into prison someplace because of their long association with Papa?

What if his broken nose got infected? Botkin wasn't there to help him. And this was the second instance he'd had it broken in in a relatively short time, though so much had happened it felt like eons between the two violent events.

First that rotten Derevenko, with Alexei's toy rifle, then the guard, with a real rifle, who'd tried to touch Tatya...

If he _did_ get a fatal infection...if he _died_...would anyone even think to tell _Alexei_ , let alone _her_?

What if they released him in the middle of nowhere? He might have a king's ransom in jewels hidden in his coat, but they wouldn't do him any good in the middle of the Siberian wilderness.

Oh, dear God, the _jewels_! What if he was searched again, by another foul guard with a grudge against him, and they found the jewels sewn into his coat?

He wouldn't know about the 'arranged medicines' sewn so cautiously into the lining...they'd accuse him of lying...of hiding the vast wealth he wasn't even aware he was carrying...

Why, he didn't even know about the music box she'd slipped into his pocket! She hadn't gotten a moment alone to tell him what she'd done, how she had used his already-searched greatcoat pocket to conceal her Grandmama's lavish gift.

He'd been so high on medication that there wouldn't have been much good trying to tell him anything important back on the _Rus_ , even if she _had_ caught him alone.

And, after a while, She had come to think she might not _have_ to tell him, really. At least not in the immediate future.

She had thought she might slip her hand back in there and take her music box out again on the sly, no one the least bit wise to the fact that she had basically used him as a mule to smuggle in an illegal good.

There had been no way of knowing that the servants would not be allowed to accompany them here. No one had said anything of the kind back in Tobolsk.

What if that was _it_? What if that glimpse she caught of him as the compartment door shut was the last time she would ever see him, the last time their eyes would ever meet?

Supposing the Bolsheviks let him go, unsearched, somewhere he _could_ maybe sell those jewels and make his way back to them – back to _her_ – only he couldn't _find_ them?

A scrapping sound across the floor made her jump.

" _Pooka_?" she whispered, uncertainly calling into the darkness for her dog. "Pooka, where are you?"

"Ana, it's all right, it's _me_." Alexei's voice.

" _Alyosha_ ," she breathed, squinting. "What are you doing out of bed?" _How_ was he out of bed? That was an even _better_ question.

Sitting up carefully, so as not to wake Maria, she reached for the little oil lamp on the floor by the cot. The one Maria had explained she kept there for emergencies in the night, since they weren't allowed to turn on the electric lights without permission, or after certain specified hours, under Yurovsky's strictest orders.

Lighting it with shaking hands, she held it up and saw Alexei standing there, leaning heavily on a cane, holding a metal box under one arm.

"You'll make yourself worse." She scooted up so that Alexei could sit beside her. "Mama will be furious."

"I've been saving up my strength, I feel okay for now." Still, he eased down beside her on the edge of the cot, wincing from the pain in his legs. "Anyway, I could not sleep, either."

Her chin motioned to the box. "What _is_ that?" she whispered.

"My treasures," he said, somewhat nonchalantly. "Little things I've saved. Rocks, old nails, broken buttons, bits of string, pebbles. The guards didn't think they were valuable so they let it slide."

"Did you want me to keep it somewhere for you?" she asked next.

He shook his head. "I have something for you – something I've been keeping in here."

"What?"

"A present. Close your eyes." His hand rested on the lid. "Ana, you're _peeking_."

"I'm not," she lied, complying and closing her eyes all the way.

She heard the lid creak open and him draw something out. "All right, _open_."

Opening her eyes, she saw – in the puddle of lamplight – two photographs, slightly battered and creased around the edges but otherwise in good condition.

"Since they've taken away our albums, I thought you might want these now."

Her eyes filling with tears, Anastasia mumbled, "How did you get these?"

"Papa forgot them in my room," Alexei explained. "After I put that Faberge egg in Dimitri's pocket. He made me look at them, then forgot to take them back. I couldn't return them to any of our albums right away, being bedridden, so I kept them with my treasures. Then I forgot they were in there."

Her eyes hungrily took in the images in the photographs. Dimitri, little more than a child, with Alexei in Livadia. Dimitri, older – bald as a newborn baby because of his shaved head – with herself, Maria, and Alexei.

"When I couldn't sleep tonight, I kept thinking..." He looked down at the photographs, drinking in the past his favorite sister currently held in her hands.

"Thinking what?"

"That you didn't even have a picture of him anymore."

"Oh, Alyosha," she said softly, taking his hand, "what about _you_?"

"He was with me almost every day since I was five years old," Alexei explained, his tone so mature it almost frightened her, as if someone – or some _thing_ – else were speaking through her baby brother's lips. "He even sat in on my lessons sometimes. He was with me when I was sick and when I was well. We played together every single afternoon. I have all those memories. At least one for every day of my life from the time I was old enough to remember.

"But, Ana, you don't _quite_ have that; you need these more than I do."

* * *

The girls – four total, and separated into two pairs again, the way the good Lord intended – were working on embroidery in the common room. The one here in the House of Special Purpose was smaller than the one in Tobolsk, but more richly furnished, and the wallpaper was much nicer, with a border of pale lilies around the molding.

Their parents were feeling unwell, perhaps from the excitement of the previous day and Yurovsky's brutish nagging, and had returned to bed after the morning inspection, in spite of the guards' jeers about how 'lazy' they were.

Doctor Botkin was in another room with a tired but strangely attentive Alexei, trying to give him a lesson as best he could – Alexandra didn't want his education to suffer, though it seemed inevitable, with his tutors left behind. Botkin could teach the boy a bit of science, such as pertained to medicine, but beyond that he was rather at a loss.

Alexei later told Anastasia that Botkin had seemed distant and melancholy throughout the lesson. "I think having to give me lessons reminds him of Dimitri," he explained sadly. "He was Botkin's student – he misses him, too, and worries about where he is now, though he never says so."

So, in the meantime, the Romanov sisters had the common room to themselves.

All morning they had talked and exchanged stories, struggling to keep the conversation at least somewhat positive, though every once in a while Maria would go very white in the face while she spoke, halting, and they could tell she was glossing over something horrible that had happened in this house recently.

"Rats." Setting down her needle, Maria suddenly sighed, "I have to visit the water closet."

"So _go_ ," Tatiana said, looking confused. "You don't have to _tell_ us about it."

"Anastasie won't vanish into thin air while you're gone, darling, I promise," Olga laughed, assuming Maria's reluctance was to do with not wanting to be away from her youngest sister even for a few minutes.

"No, it's..." She reached for a little brass bell on the nearest end-table. "We're not supposed to go without being escorted, and I don't know who's on duty. I've forgotten the schedule again – I'm a dunce at remembering the order, and they _do_ keep changing."

Tatiana was appalled. "Wait, you cannot mean we're not allowed to...to... _relieve_ ourselves..." She blushed furiously. "...Without a guard present?"

Maria nodded. "We're not _supposed_ to – they yelled at Mama for that last week. It was horrible."

"That's _barbaric_!" Tatiana exclaimed, her horror causing her to accidentally jab her needle into the wrong row of stitches.

"Well, they wait outside," Maria said in small voice. "They don't go in with us, at least."

"At _least_!" Tatiana remained wholly indignant.

"What happens if you just go without ringing?" Anastasia asked.

"I told you, we get yelled at," Maria sighed, her saucer eyes wide with something like fear. "I hate it when they're angry with us."

"For pity's _sake_!" Olga groused, reaching up and rubbing her temples. " _Tell_ me you're joking, having a go at us."

The cowed look on Maria's face told them there was no such luck.

"Why should _they_ be angry?" Anastasia demanded, frowning. " _We're_ the ones who have to be walked to do the Governor like...like... _pets_!"

"Anastasia, don't be vulgar," Tatiana snapped.

"It isn't so bad," Maria went on. "At least, if it's Ivan on duty, it isn't."

"Who is Ivan?" Olga asked.

"Is he the guard who smiles at you?" Anastasia put in, wiggling her eyebrows teasingly, her anger slightly deflated by this new notion.

"Yes," Maria admitted, looking down at her lap and fighting back a grin. "I can't wait for you to meet him; he's quite handsome. I think God was in an especially good mood when he made Ivan – he has the loveliest face I ever saw, and the nicest blonde hair. And he looks very, _very_ good in his uniform. You'll fall in love the moment you see him, I guarantee it."

Tatiana sighed warily. "He's a _Bolshie_ , Mashka."

"You don't have to be ugly just because you're a Bolshie," she argued quietly. "Or bad-tempered."

"I've found it often goes together," Tatiana replied stubbornly, her tone very matter-of-fact.

"Well, if not Ivan, maybe it will be Gleb," was Maria's next hope, as she lifted the bell from its place and rang it as loud as she dared. "I'm so _glad_ he came with you! It'll be nice to have an extra familiar, friendly face around here. He gave me a daisy once, do you remember?"

Anastasia coughed twice and focused more intently on her embroidery. Of _course_ she remembered. It was awfully hard to forget an event when you were the puppeteer behind its taking place.


	25. An Unescorted Princess

_An Unescorted Princess_

It was either a stroke of luck – or else pure Bolshie stupidity, depending on how you chose to view the matter – that was to save Dimitri's life and deliver him from that train in one piece.

The guards, when they moved him, temporarily, into another compartment, away from the chambermaids, did not lock the door. Either they were forgetful and sloppy, or egregiously overconfident. _Idiotkas_.

The tutors they had let go at some rural station some five or ten miles up the tracks. It was little better than the middle of nowhere, but somehow Dimitri did not think it would end badly for Gibbes and Gilliard. He knew, even then, that they would live to write books about this experience someday. And he knew, even then, that he would never feature in one – not so much as a footnote.

Then an officer had removed Dimitri from the presence of the maids, interrogated him for a couple hours, then left him alone.

This time alone stretched from one hour to nearly five; the shadows in the compartment had shifted, his stomach beginning to growl and his nose aching (needing another dose of Botkin's medicine to dull the pain) like mad, when he heard the gunshots and the women screaming.

Were the guards, he later pondered, so dense they honest expected him to wait to find out what happened?

He _knew_ what happened.

It was painfully obvious.

So, creeping along as silently as he could, he let himself out of the compartment and fast-walked down the narrow aisle until he reached a door. He stepped out – balancing himself on the coupler, the wind whipping at his hair and making his eyes sting – and flung himself off the train.

His legs throbbed from ankle to upper-thigh and he thought his nose might actually _fall off_ his face, but he didn't stop even to catch his breath – for he knew he wasn't safe.

Not yet.

With the blustery wind, there could never be any confirmation that Dimitri really heard the guards' shouts upon discovering his escape – or if it was just white wilderness noise misinterpreted by his frightened mind. However, he certainly believed all of his remaining life that it was the guards on the train. He even swore, once, to someone he would never knowingly lie to, that at least one of these guards shot at him as he dove behind a tree, narrowly dodging it, and the train – never stopping – chugged along the tracks until it was out of sight.

It was freezing, so that even in his greatcoat he shivered, and feared the worst for any part of him – particularly his face – that was exposed.

Leave it to him to get hypothermia or frostbite (possibly _both_ , given his recent luck) with spring just around the corner. Not that Russian spring – especially in Siberia – was particularly gentle.

When he had landed in the snow after jumping off the train, he had noticed something strange but had not had time to register it. He had landed not quite face first, lurching more to one side, into the bank; and a hard object in his coat pocket had pressed against his hip, badly bruising it.

Still moving at a brisk pace, limping slightly, he reached into his pocket to examine it. Offhandedly, he might have thought it was his watch, the one Nicholas gave him.

Except, they'd taken that away, so it couldn't be.

Instead, he found Anastasia's music box. Tiny, gold-and-green, and locked up with no key to open it.

How had he come to possess this?

If anything, he'd assumed Anastasia had been forced to leave it behind in Tobolsk. Or that it was one of the precious objects the guards looted from them. Yet here it was, in his pocket.

Thankfully, he hadn't broken it.

After some speculation, Dimitri could only conclude Anastasia herself had slipped it in there. Who _else_ would have bothered?

Recalling Alexei's stunt with the Faberge egg, he found himself muttering, "What _is_ it with this family and dropping things into my pocket?"

The music box turned out not to be the only thing he discovered in his coat as he walked along that day.

Knowing he must walk a long way in either direction he might choose, Dimitri had allowed his swollen, icy feet to make up his mind for him.

Away from Yekaterinburg, he might stand a chance at a new life. Find some northern village willing to take him in, invent a story – he wasn't an aristocrat, so he might be safe enough living out his life as though his stint as companion to Alexei Romanov never happened. He had wit, and more than a few people had told him before he was handsome (though, with his broken nose, he wasn't so sure he could reply on _that_ with any certainty); why not invent a charming new persona, get rich off some clever scheme, and make his way across Russia – maybe to Saint Petersburg, or even the Crimea? He'd always loved the Crimea, from the very first time the Romanovs brought him to Livadia with them.

His feet never started in that direction. Never moved down the track towards a life unshackled to the family he'd once served.

Whatever his mind might have briefly considered, ever so traitorously, his weak flesh was loyal down through his sinew and chilled bones.

Alexei might as well have been his brother in blood as well as bond, for all that Dimitri could willingly desert the boy.

Olga, Tatiana, and Maria had each been kind to him in their own socially-deprived way.

Of course, there had been far too many times when he seriously doubted Tatiana cared whether or not he awoke in the morning, or if he should suddenly stop breathing and be replaced with a new servant to carry her brother around. Which was why he kept the piece of paper – even after the guard crumpled it – on which she'd written his favorite color. Because she'd guessed right. Because, really, she hadn't _guessed_ at all – she'd _known_ all along. He had never actually been the faceless slave in her eyes he imagined he was.

_Nicholas and Alexandra..._

When he was a little boy, just starting out in his service to Alexei, Botkin had told him stories about Rasputin. Dimitri had never known the man, as he died at the same ball that introduced him to the heir's hemophilia and brought him into the Romanov family. Still, the mystic's wild reputation lived on. Botkin said that Rasputin used to privately call Tsar Nicholas and Tsarina Alexandra _Papa_ and _Mama_. This story stuck in Dimitri's head for ages, because – secretly, though he'd never have admitted it – he desperately wanted the right to call them those particular names himself.

They were more than Mother Russia's deposed parents – cast aside by rebellious children who mistakenly thought they didn't care about them.

They were _his_ distant parents, too. Or as good as. They had made him what he was today, more than almost anyone else.

To abandon them, to not see them again after coming this far... It seemed impossible. As idiotic as traveling all the way to Paris and not visiting the Eiffel Tower or Notre Dame. He hadn't seen them since they left Tobolsk with Maria, and he wanted to. Very, _very_ much.

Then there was Anastasia.

That mad girl had his loyalty in spades – every possible claim a woman could have to a man, she had to him.

She was his childhood sweetheart. She was his confidant. His equal in verbal sparring, and his superior in practical jokes. She was his first – and he hoped, as he didn't believe he could keep going through this unspeakable anguish with multiple people and keep his sanity, _last_ – lover; the woman he'd said vows to in his room in Tobolsk and taken to his bed.

She was his princess.

To try and leave Siberia without her was madness, something his physical being refused to do.

So his feet plodded in the direction they hoped would carry them to back Yekaterinburg. Back to the land of the Reds. Back to every chance of being captured, interrogated, and recognized as a Romanov lackey who would not be persuaded, come hell or high water, to leave the last imperial family to their fate – whatever it might be.

_So be it._

His hand was in his pocket again. He found a small object there. A tiny, diamond-chip-studded lily carved from a single pearl. It must have broken off the Faberge egg and remained unnoticed in the lining all this time.

Under that pearl, a loose thread.

His numb fingers worried at that thread thoughtlessly, unraveling the fine stitching on the lining.

Overhead, a cloud moved, and the sun shone down on him.

Strangely, he found his eyes drawn to his torn pocket. A row of diamonds (each roughly the size of his thumbnail) glinted back at him, making his eyes pop.

" _Mother of Moses_!" he exclaimed, certain – if only for a moment – he was seeing things.

Then he tore the lining further and found emeralds and sapphires, followed by a sewn-shut pouch of milky pearls so perfect a group of schoolboys could play Marbles with them.

* * *

"Anastasia, where are you going?" Maria asked, as her little sister suddenly tossed down the book she had been thumbing through with a bored look on her face and marched through the middle of the common room to the doorway.

"I'm going to the water closet," she said, her tone tetchy, though her malice was not directed at Maria personally.

"The bell..." Maria pointed pathetically at the end-table.

"I'm not ringing it and waiting twenty minutes for a guard to grace us with his presence," Anastasia snapped, stomping a foot. "I have to go _now_ , not a half hour from now."

Alexandra peered at Nicholas over the thin spectacles she was wearing to see the small stitches in a pillowcase she was mending. "I suppose it's all right, isn't it, Nicky?"

Nicholas shrugged. "They do take a while – if you're quick, dear, it should be all right."

"Just remember to come right back," Olga put in.

Tatiana snorted; she fully shared Anastasia's lack of acceptance regarding their chaperoned trips to the lavatory. "I say stay as long as you can – that will show them."

" _Tatya_!" Olga protested.

"What harm is it going to do?" Tatiana argued, pointing at their youngest sister. "She looks like a drooping plant, sitting in this room all day – and _you're_ getting just as pale!"

"She's not going to get any sunlight in the water closet, Tatya."

"I have to _go_ ," Anastasia reminded them, her voice growing rather testy.

Nicholas waved her out. "Just go."

" _Thank you_!" She raced out the door, exhaling deeply.

"B-but...Papa...they've told us not to...not ever..." came Maria's timid protest – the last thing Anastasia heard before disappearing down the hallway.

Picking up the pace, Anastasia was glad for a moment alone, even if it was just to go and relieve herself.

The truth was, in her restlessness, she was growing a bit careless. Having met Maria's saintly Ivan – and finding him just as lovely as described, though he was not her type – she had grown a little less frightened of the guards as a whole. As long as she managed to time her unescorted ventures through the house between Ivan and Gleb's shifts – which she usually did – she wasn't even likely to get a warning, much less into any kind of real trouble.

She tried to remember if one of them was on duty right then, but couldn't. Her screaming bladder made it hard to think clearly.

After relieving herself and pulling the chain to flush, she had the sudden realization that Gleb's shift wasn't for another ten minutes at least, that they – he and Ivan both – had changed recently with another guard who liked giving her Papa rude looks and the occasional obscene hand gesture.

Having no wish to run into _that_ man, though she wasn't really afraid of him, Anastasia quickly gathered up her skirts and started for the door.

Her path was blocked by none other than that nasty-faced guard himself, swaggering and holding himself up with one hand against the framework like he'd had too much to drink.

She tried to duck around him – her initial thought being that he was coming into the closet, not to scold her, but to vomit, and she had better get out of his way – except he grabbed her arm with his free hand and pulled her to him.

" _Unhand_ me," she said slowly, speaking through her teeth.

"You know," he sneered down at her, "when I saw one of you was in here without permission, I was hoping it would be the tall one. I would love to teach that snob a lesson – but I suppose you'll have to do."

Anastasia had an uncomfortable flash of memory. "You're the guard who tried to help Tatiana into the wagon – she refused you."

"Oh, the _smart one_ , are you?" he simmered, his breath reeking of vodka. "The one who notices things?"

"You're _drunk_ ," she insisted, twisting in a vain attempt to get her arm free; "let me _go_."

"I _will_ ," he slurred, straightening himself so that he was no longer leaning on the framework, backing her against the nearest wall. "Soon as I've taught you a lesson. Then you can go back to your bloody papa and tell him he'd better learn to control his family."

Her blue eyes widened. Instinctively, she jackknifed forward and bit his wrist so hard she drew blood.

" _Bitch_!" he shouted, grabbing her face and shoving it in the direction of a crude picture that had been drawn of Alexandra with an oversize tiara and no clothing on the opposite wall. "Why don't you look at that and keep quiet!"

Reaching behind herself for a loose strip of wood that was being used to hang up a bag of toilet rags, complete with a tiny nail sticking out of the end, she brandished it like a sword. "Stay away from me."

Laughing, he reached to lift up her skirt and, briefly releasing her arm, loosened his belt.

Anastasia swung the piece of wood like a bat and struck him on the side of the face. "Next time I won't go so _easy_!"

He swore at her again and charged, with more vim in this attempt.

Beating him until the wooden strip broke, splintering against the side of his cheekbone, she then defended herself with her fingernails, clawing at the guard like a alley cat.

* * *

Gleb had been on the phone in the room that served as Yurovsky's (temporarily empty) office when the chiming of the longcase clock in the far corner by the desk told him it was almost time for him to go on duty.

After shooting off a quick witticism about bad telephone lines in Russia – which his comrade on the other end had not appreciated, reacting rather sensitively to for some reason – he made his excuses and prepared to hang up the receiver. "No, no, that was a _joke_ – we have _wonderful_ telephones."

Finally setting the receiver down with a sigh of relief, Gleb rubbed his forehead and started off down the hallway, straightening his label.

He came to a stop at the half-open door of the water closet, from which he could hear moaning and soft crying.

The first thing he saw was his fellow guard with a bloodied face and his uniform pants down, lying against the wall, making several very unmanly comments about wanting his mother through his split lip.

A broken, blood-stained piece of wood was in splinters on the floor. Somewhere close by, a loose nail rolled loudly along the level.

And the crying was coming from the small space behind the toilet, where the youngest daughter of the former tsar was scrunched up with her knees to her chin, whimpering as tears streamed down her cut-up face, the guard's angry fingernail-marks plainly visible on her white cheeks.

Spotting him, she immediately shifted away, clearly terrified.

"Comrade Romanova," he said gently. "It's me. _Gleb_."

She blinked at him, only the barest flicker of recognition in those pretty eyes of hers.

"You're shaking," he whispered. "It will be all right; take my hand. He can't hurt you anymore. I'll talk to Yurovsky, have him dismissed. He will never come near you again, you have my word."

Gnawing on her lower lip, she slowly reached up with her hand, slipping it securely into his.

* * *

"What is the meaning of this?" Nicholas demanded when Gleb walked into the common room, carrying a limp Anastasia in his arms.

Having all but fainted after Gleb helped her up, claiming to see black dots in her field of vision as she rose, he had been obliged to carry her the rest of the way back to her stunned family.

His eyes narrowed accusingly at Nicholas. "What the hell were you _thinking_ , letting her go to the water closet unescorted?"

Alexei had wheeled his chair over, and Anastasia's sisters had flown to his side, crying out a thousand things at once (in what might have been the French language they were technically forbidden from speaking in this house, because it certainly wasn't Russian), but the irate guard ignored them, only willing to give the half-conscious girl over to her father and nobody else.

"Unless you truly _are_ a fiend, Bloody Nicholas," Gleb hissed, "you will take her now and comfort her."


	26. The Lost Romanov

_The Lost Romanov_

The pocket doors leading into the dining room of the House of Special Purpose never stayed open or shut for very long whenever the Romanov family was within range. The three youngest children seemed to find the way the double doors slid in and out of the wall fascinating, and were constantly playing with them.

Either they were extraordinarily easily amused, or perhaps they truly were _that_ bored.

When Alexei and Anastasia were not pretending they were on the opposite ends of an elevator, closing the doors slowly and acting as if they were meeting up again on another level of a tall building upon reopening them, Anastasia and Maria played endless games of now-you-see-me, now-you-don't. This bizarre game they'd invented seemed to crudely mimic their separation when Maria had left Tobolsk with their parents, both pulling deep frowns as they slid the pocket doors shut – each stranded on the opposite side – then opening them to find the other waiting.

Each time, without fail, they were delighted, and it showed on their rapt faces. Particularly Anastasia, who seemed to take the anxiety during their reenactment of their separation a little too far – she actually _cried_ twice, with real tears and a streaming nose.

The night before, Tatiana had been whispering to Olga about this.

"You don't suppose," she fretted anxiously, her voice rather shaky, "the little pair really _have_ gone a bit mad – that they aren't only acting?"

Olga's response was not the reassuring one she hoped for. "Not Mashka – she's become a little more cowed, bullied by the guards, but she isn't mad. She's as much herself as ever. It's Anastasie that frightens me. She hasn't been the same since that horrible incident in the water closet.

"She always was a good little actress, but what she does now _isn't_ acting. She's becoming more like a damaged version of the child she was than the young woman she grew up to be in Tobolsk."

Tatiana had shivered violently. "Don't you think one of us could...say or do something to... _reach_ her? Bring her back?"

"I can think of _one_ person who might," she had sighed, clenching her jaw to hold back tears. "But we left him behind at the train station."

This morning, Maria and Anastasia were at it again.

Close doors. Be sad. Open them. Smile and embrace, giggling with glee.

By the fourth time in a row, Alexandra was getting annoyed. "Girls, sit down and wait for breakfast."

"What Mama _means_ ," Alexei put in cheekily, fidgeting with his silverware, "is wait for the guards to finish eating most of our breakfast and bring in the leftovers."

Maria chortled at this, but Nicholas was not amused in the least, shooting his son a stern look.

To his poor Anastasia, the former tsar could no longer quite manage that look when he tried, even when it was fully justified; he felt too guilty about allowing her to go to the water closet unescorted.

True, she might have been attacked regardless, but it wouldn't have been off-record, since their lavatory usages were logged, and each guard had to account for any funny business. Even drunk, the vile man might have hesitated before touching her if everyone in the house had known where they were at that exact moment. He might not have expected to get away with it.

Then there was another concerning issue.

When gently questioned by her concerned parents, Anastasia had insisted the guard had not succeeded in raping her, that she'd beat the daylights out of him, defending herself.

The visible wounds of the man Nicholas had caught a glimpse of as Yurovsky led him out of the house for the last time after terminating his employment therein seemed to support his daughter's story. The former guard was hurt far worse – _physically_ , anyway – than the former grand duchess. She had scratches, she would heal. _He_ looked like he'd been pummeled.

Nicholas had not been able to quelch his pride in this matter. Yurovsky could scoff, call Anastasia an unnatural little demon under his breath, but his own brave little girl had done that – had not let that man take advantage of her – and Nicholas couldn't have been more proud. What a true princess his youngest daughter was, and always _would_ be!

That in itself had been enough for Nicholas. Not so for the distraught Alexandra. She needed – absolutely _needed_ – to know if her daughter had been violated. She couldn't protect her child on half-truths, or on delusions. Suppose the frightened child remembered incorrectly and the real memory came back suddenly?

So she asked Doctor Botkin to examine her and find out the truth. Anastasia hadn't wanted it, but her mother's wish overruled her own in the end.

The results, told in a low voice to the anxious parents by a most befuddled Botkin, were contradictory.

"There aren't any of the usual signs of a violent rape," he had begun, turning a bit red and polishing his spectacles for the small distraction this action provided. "She has no... _injuries_...of that sort down there."

Alexandra had crossed herself, nearly sinking to her knees in relief. "Praise be to God."

"There is more." Botkin's face had doubtless resembled a tomato by this point in the uncomfortable conversation. "Your daughter is...I don't know how to tell you this..."

"Please just say what you must," Nicholas begged him.

"Your youngest daughter, Anastasia Nicholaevna Romanova, is not a virgin."

"Then he _did_ violate her," had been Alexandra's final conclusion, her face white as a sheet. "He must have."

Botkin was unconvinced. A man as violent as the guard had been, prompting Anastasia to beat him off, wouldn't have left her free of intimate injuries if he'd been successful in his endeavor. The only marks he'd left on her were on her arm where he'd grabbed too tightly, and the fingernail-impressions on her face. All other scars from the unspeakable incident had been left only on her psyche, and Botkin was not a psychologist.

If Nicholas' grand solution to his guilt was to go easier on Anastasia, Alexandra's was the opposite. She felt the need to keep her youngest daughter closer, to chide her more than ever before, for her future protection.

So her tone when she ordered the little pair to stop playing with the doors and sit down had left no room for nonsense. It was her keen belief now that she must protect the little ones, Anastasia especially, at all costs, from the corrupting influence of an idle mind focusing on ridiculous games and not allowing the Lord's comfort to heal their wounds.

The little pair obeyed, of course, sitting down without complaint on either side of Alexei.

The guards eventually brought in a meal from a local restaurant. As Alexei predicted, it had been picked clean of all the nicest parts. Most of the boiled eggs were gone, as well as the milk and sliced potatoes, hardly enough left for Nicholas himself, let alone his whole family.

Alexei was given the last of the milk and eggs, because he was sickly, and his papa put on a brave face and declared that the coarse, sour black bread – of which they had two small loafs to divvy up between themselves and Botkin – was true Russian food and he was glad to have it.

Alexandra concurred, though – after saying prayers of thanks – she hardly ate more than a couple bites of the slice her husband put on her plate.

Olga seemed to be following this example, which worried Tatiana.

"Olenka," she pleaded, slipping a slice off her own plate. "Take a little more."

"It's all right, I'm not very hungry this morning."

A guard with a thick brown mustache, listening to their conversation from the wall against which he was stationed, strode forward and picked the remainder of Olga's slice off her plate. "I value good food, even if you do not – we can't all be so picky as your fancy Highness."

Anastasia suddenly shot out of her chair, flinging it back behind her and pounding her fist on the table, rattling the whole tabletop. "You can't just take anything you want whenever you feel like it. That is _our_ bread!"

Maria jumped and steadied her drinking glass.

"Ana," Alexei said quietly, reaching up and tugging at her sleeve. "It's only bread. Olga doesn't want any more, anyway."

She ignored him. "Do we look like you, _Comrade_?" she cried, glaring at the guard who – in his one act of pettiness – had given her all the leave she needed to unleash her full venom on him. " _Do_ we? With your bright eyes and tanned skin and good health? _Look_ at us!" She swung her hand wildly in the direction of the big pair. "Olga has stomach cramps every morning, and Tatiana catches cold almost once a week – her nose runs all the time! Alexei hasn't felt sunlight on his face for four days because you won't let us go outside! Mama has a headache all the time now. Do you mean to starve us as well?"

" _Anastasia_!" Alexandra hissed, her eyes darting back and forth, as if she expected the guard to bend across the table and strike her daughter over this outburst. "Sit down and be quiet at once."

The guard made a rude noise with his throat, turned on his heel, and left them.

"Horrible man," Tatiana muttered.

Olga gazed pityingly at Anastasia. "Sit down, darling."

Maria righted her sister's discarded chair, and Anastasia obediently sank down into it with all the vim of a lifeless rag-doll that had, indeed, been possessed by some angry spirit but only for a fleeting moment.

"Don't you ever do that again," Alexandra scolded. " _Never_! Do you hear me? Haven't you had enough trouble in this house already?"

"Mama, _please_!" Olga protested, shaking her head. "Look at her!"

Alexandra did, and blanched, tears springing into her eyes. "You need to be more careful – that's all I meant." The unspoken words were louder than those that died on the ex-tsarina's lips: _Come back – come back to us, wherever you've gone inside yourself, come_ back _!_

And – in flickers, like shadows and slants of light passing through her eyes, one second hollow, the next occupied – she _did_ return to them, perhaps in an effort to comply with her mother's silent plea, but it wasn't the same.

The guard did not come back, Yurovsky entered the dining room in place of the disgruntled man and coolly asked, in a manner that hardly required a proper answer, "There has been a complaint about the food?"

"Only that there isn't _enough_ of it," Nicholas managed, his voice raspy. "The guards have taken bread off the plates of my children – it causes some tension, I'm sure you understand."

Yurovsky pointed at Anastasia. " _You_. The guard said you yelled at him. I would like _you_ to explain the problem to me."

"Please, sir," Tatiana tried, "my sister is not well."

"She has a tongue, she certainly can _speak_ ," Yurovsky scoffed, rolling his eyes. "She's made that perfectly clear. On this much, I think we call all agree."

The smallest tight smirk formed on Anastasia's lips. She answered, in half-mumbled French. And not very nicely, either.

Alexei bit his lower lip to hold back laughter; Maria and Tatiana blushed from the start of their hairlines to their chins; Olga's eyes widened; Nicholas and Alexandra were nonplussed.

"No filthy German in this house," Yurovsky barked. "You know the rules."

"That was _French_ ," Alexei put in, receiving a glare from his parents in return.

"Answer me in Russian." Yurovsky was relentless. "Do you or do you not want more bread at this table?"

" _Yes_ ," Anastasia muttered, this time speaking in the desired Russian, her eyelids lowered sulkily.

"If you want more bread," he pressed on, finally having gotten the answer he was rehearsed for, "you will have to make it yourself – we do all we can for you here, while you and your family rest your lazy bones in the common room."

He said it as if they'd had a choice in the matter.

" _Fine_ ," Anastasia retorted, louder, throwing Yurovsky off-script again. "But I don't know how. Find someone to teach me, and I _will_ make it myself."

* * *

"Ana!" Alexei cried, banging his cane against the side of her cot. "Wake up! Come see!"

"Is it breakfast already?" Anastasia murmured, rolling over.

"Almost," Alexei told her, offhandedly, as he yanked her covers back. "Come on, _get up_!"

"I don't feel good." She hadn't felt good in a long time, and Nicholas – so long as she didn't miss morning inspection – had been letting her sleep in longer than her sisters.

"You've got to see this – you won't believe what they're doing!"

She put her limp wrist over her eyes. "What _who_ is doing?"

"The guards!"

"I don't _care_ what they do anymore."

"You'll care about _this_ , Ana," Alexei insisted.

"Alyosha, please leave me alone; I have a headache."

"You sound like Mama."

"Alyosha, what did I just _say_?" Her voice cracked.

"They're at your window now, just sit up and look."

It was not _quite_ true that she only had to sit up to see what was going on – she had to get out of her cot and cross the room, but she did so, as her curiosity was finally piqued.

Sure enough, there _was_ a guard there, outside the window, standing on a high ladder. Not an unfriendly one, but Maria's precious, golden-haired Ivan in the flesh.

She had the feeling that, if he wasn't being so closely watched by two other guards on the ground, he would have waved.

More concerning was the lengthy roller – dipped in limestone-white paint – he held in his hand, which he was using to paint over the glass pane of the window.

Within minutes, Anastasia could see nothing out of it; it was like being inside of a milk carton, or an especially plain genie's bottle in an Arabian folktale.

"They've done it to _all_ the windows," Alexei told her. "And sealed them."

Sobbing with abandon, Anastasia raced across the room and flung herself back into her cot.

Alexei, taken aback, came and sat beside her, and began awkwardly patting her hair. "It's okay, Ana, we won't be here much longer – I know it. It's nearly time for us to move on; I can feel it in my bones. We can endure anything if it's only for a little while."

* * *

Early the following evening, the former princesses slipped into their bedroom to find two strange women – perhaps Olga's age – with big steel buckets and mops moving their cots out of the way and cleaning the floor behind them.

Maria let out a squeal of delighted surprise. _New people!_ Real, flesh-and-blood new people!

Startled by Maria's squeal, the two young women turned, gawking at the four princesses standing in the doorway.

"Who are you?" asked Olga, stepping inside the room first, the other three following her lead like a row of transfixed ducklings.

"We've taken nothing. They've brought us in here to clean, that's all," one managed, blinking rapidly. "We'll be done soon, we promise."

"Oh, there's no hurry!" Maria rushed at them, lifting up one of the buckets and sloshing some of the soapy water by accident. "Let us help."

"We couldn't do _that_ ," the other woman blurted. "You're...well, you used to be..."

"Even when we lived in the Catherine Palace, we helped clean our own room," Tatiana said, with a light shrug. "Mama insisted – it was only good manners not to simply stand and watch while somebody scrubbed up our messes."

The first woman had resumed mopping with a quick apology that she didn't mean to be rude herself, except Yurovsky was sure to be upset if he came in to check on them and found their hands idle.

As she worked, she began humming a tune that was so familiar to Anastasia that – at first – she did not recognize its significance.

No one outside of their personal circle could know that song. It was _Once Upon A December_ , from her lost music box; a lullaby her grandmama had had invented especially for her, Anastasia Nicholaevna Romanov.

" _Where_ ," she breathed, heart thudding, "did you learn that?"

"Learn what?"

"That song!"

"The one I was humming?" The woman seemed delighted that her song impressed the former grand duchess, or at least had reached her somehow. "It's _pretty_ , isn't it? I heard a young man humming it outside my uncle's tavern only two days ago and I can't get it out of my head."

Anastasia lurched forward and grasped the woman's elbows, squeezing harder than she meant to. "What did he look like?"

She twisted her mouth, trying to recall. "Rather tall. Dark-haired, I think."

Anastasia felt her mouth go dry. _Could it be?_ "Don't move, wait there!" She let go of the woman and dashed to the panel beside Maria's cot, where she had hidden the photographs Alexei gave her. She thrust one in the woman's face. "Is _this_ him?"

"It's hard to tell," the woman admitted, squinting hard; "the man in your picture is bald, so he looks a little different, of course... But it _could_ be the same person."

"Can you find him again?" Anastasia asked, her face alight like a transfigured angel, more hope in it than her sisters had seen since the water closet incident. "Do you think you could talk to him for me?"

" _Perhaps_..." The woman, and her companion, seemed a little afraid now. "I mean, yes, but _why_..."

"When you see him," Anastasia begged, forcefully pressing on despite their obvious apprehensions, "tell him I–"

But she never finished.

For Yurovsky appeared in the doorway like a soulless devil popping straight from the bowels of Hell, demanding to know what the cleaning women thought they were playing at, talking to the prisoners when he'd given them strict orders not to.


	27. Black Bread

_Black Bread_

Human stupidity is vast – endless days could be spent logging the ways in which mortal men fall afoul of each other in situations that could be easily avoidable with forethought.

Forethought, and perhaps a little less vodka now and again.

This would seem to be why so many acts of blatant stupidity take place in taverns. If anyone were to study something as soul-crushingly pointless as the top causes of tavern brawls, the statistics pointing clearly to sheer idiocy would likely be nothing short of staggering.

And so it went with the little tavern in Yekaterinburg that purple-hued, late spring night.

The man bragging (for there is _always_ a braggart that starts these things – or very nearly) was a recently dismissed guard from the House of Special Purpose. Despite the fact that his face was in shreds and he looked little better than death warmed up, this cocksure man had strutted in as if he were a war hero. Even admitting, quite openly, that he'd been dishonorably dismissed from his post, with a sharp order from Yurovsky himself never to return, he claimed it was worth it – that he had struck a blow for the underprivileged with what he'd done.

What _had_ he done?

He claimed to have raped one of Bloody Nicholas' daughters.

"That's how I got these little love-scratches on my face," he laughed, bringing a bottle of vodka to his lips and swigging, pulling it back from his mouth with a disgustingly vulgar slurp. "Little stubby bitch fought like a polecat in heat."

Someone seated nearby – their name now one of many lost to history – asked which of the four daughters it was.

After snorting that it hardly _mattered_ which, as any one of the four little harlots sired by their hated ex-tsar would have done as well as the other, he admitted it was the youngest.

"The short one," the guard went on, waving his bottle dramatically in the air. "With the red hair and prideful face and nice, round ass."

If the guard had not been so enthralled with his storytelling, or maybe thought to look at something other than the longneck bottle in his hand while telling it, he might have noticed that one man in the tavern, listening with burning ears, was getting angrier with each boisterous word he spoke.

He didn't notice, either, when the man – abandoning his own drink – rose up and came towards him, murderous rage in his eyes.

One or two of the other tavern guests might have noticed the man's approach to the guard from behind (it is hard to believe he went completely unobserved, even surrounded by drunkards), but they obviously did not care enough to call out a warning.

So the man gripped the back of the former guard's neck and smashed his face, unceremoniously and wholly without mercy, into the tabletop of the long, low-standing bar.

It was a miracle, people later said. Even the most wasted, pro-atheism men in that dreary room might have converted to the Orthodox faith on the spot that night if they'd taken the notion after seeing it.

The miracle was, quite simply, that the rapist guard did not actually _die_ from this blow. The man who gave no name – but was, of course none other than Dimitri Viktorovich – did not actually kill this monster.

He had certainly _looked_ angry enough to kill him, no doubt about it, and there had been no subtlety in his brutal smashing of the guard's already grossly damaged face, but – once it was over – the braggart remained breathing.

Somehow, Dimitri had even avoided breaking this former guard's neck, a distinct possibility given the grip he'd had on it.

It was in order to _keep_ it this way, and – in so doing – avoid a Bolshevik investigation of the matter into his tavern (which doubtless would have destroyed his business), that the barkeep whipped out a pistol, pointed it at Dimitri, and said, "No violence in my bar, young man – get _out_."

Dimitri held up his hands. "I'm leaving." He placed a couple of rubles down beside the man whose face he'd smashed, as payment for the drink he hadn't finished.

Through hemorrhaging lips, the ex-Ipatiev house guard mumbled a slurred variant of "Son of a bitch."

* * *

Outside, Dimitri struck a match and lit a cigarette with trembling hands. His mind wouldn't settle. Was the man he'd maimed back there merely a braggart with a sick sense of humor, or had he actually... _done that_...to Anastasia?

Was she all right?

If she was hurt, or bedridden, or traumatized in that house blocked by two fences and painted-over windows, how would he ever know? How would he get in to help her?

He was so close, and more desperate than ever to penetrate those walls and find the Romanov family.

Find _his_ family.

How could those guards – especially Gleb, that useless Bolshie prick who was supposed to still be with them, _protecting_ them – let anything happen to Anastasia under their care? Dimitri was almost angrier with _them_ than he was with the lout back in the tavern. They'd just allowed something so vile, to... No, there was still hope. Still some small hope that he was lying. Or exaggerating.

Not for the first time, he considered something truly terrible. So many bad things happening since that day they'd left the Catherine Palace had already changed all of them, himself included, but what if whatever was happening in that house – that _House of Special Purpose_ – now was even worse? What if the family he found within was so damaged from their time there that he never really got them back? He wanted to believe they were strong enough to withstand anything, absolutely _anything_ , but the fear that it would be too late whenever he finally reached them only grew with each passing hour.

There were some things you couldn't ask a mere mortal to bounce back from.

He coughed, the tobacco smoke going down his throat the wrong way. Tears glistened in his brown eyes, hidden only by the darkness of evening.

But Nicholas was the tsar – or had been – so he was above mortal man.

Except, he wasn't.

And neither were his beautiful children.

Dimitri knew better than anyone that they were just a nice Russian family, as human as any other, save for the privilege they were born into. After all, that was what he loved about them.

"It cannot _be_ ," shrilled a snuffling voice Dimitri hadn't heard in ages. "It cannot be you! Is it truly you, dear little boy?"

Looking across the road, Dimitri saw a woman in a shabby coat – her loose, wispy hair half-covered by a babushka – running towards him with her arms spread out.

"Oh, it _is_ you! Alexei's kitchen-boy friend whom I used to scold so!"

A shiver of surprise and confusion overcame him. "I..."

"Don't you recognize me? When Alexei was very, very small, maybe seven years old, he used to call you _Dima_. I remember so well – I remember everything from those days.

"Don't you know me, boy?"

Even without all the jewels and airs he _did_ know her, actually, but he couldn't believe his eyes; the last shock they had beheld of this magnitude was the discovery of jewels in his greatcoat. " _Lili_?"

She embraced him. "Dear child!" She leaned her cheek against his ear. "So you are not with them, either, then?"

He had not expected to see Lili, Alexandra's rather haughty lady-in-waiting, ever again. The last time any of them had seen her was that awful day she was dragged away, not allowed on the train to Tobolsk; the day she was put under arrest.

Now she barely looked like the same person. She was humbled, greatly diminished, and – rather than be pleased she was put in her place, thinking her paid back for every curt word she had ever spoken to him – Dimitri was heartbroken. He would have cut off his own right hand if it would have restored her to her old self.

The simple truth was he'd liked Lili exactly the way she had been, her posh uppity manner included.

Pulling away, he blinked back tears and shook his head. No, he was not with them. Had not been for a while now. And it was killing him inside.

"As soon as they let me go, said I was free again," Lili wept, "I went looking for my Romanovs. Poor, dear Tsarina Alexandra will need me more than ever before; I kept telling myself this over and over.

"I've followed the trail, as best I could find it, all the way here – and I cannot get inside that _house_. Not even for a visit!"

Dimitri lightly gripped the shivering lady-in-waiting's shoulders. "I _will_ get in, Lili, one way or another – I promise you that."

"Tell them I love them," she pleaded, pressing her palms together as if in earnest prayer. "That I am here, waiting."

"I will," he swore, the tears spilling over the reddened brims of his eyes now. "If I can speak to them alone, I will."

* * *

"It's so _hot_ today," Tatiana moaned, fanning herself with a tiny, unadorned fan that had gone unraided from their luggage. "Must be nearly summer."

"It wouldn't be so bad if they would just allow us _one_ open window," Maria panted, sprawled on the floor of the common room beside the couch where the big pair sat. "Not to look outside – I know they don't let us do that anymore – just for a little fresh air."

Anastasia grunted in agreement from where she rested flat on her back beside her sister; Pooka curled belly-up next to her left foot, sneezing from the overpowering, uncirculated smell of Doctor Botkin's cologne.

The stuffiness of the House of Special Purpose was so overwhelming that day, Alexandra didn't even scold the little pair for lying on the floor with their skirts hiked up, too busy nursing a tension headache and loosening her own lace collar.

Seeing Olga beginning to sweat profusely, Tatiana handed her the fan, which she immediately relinquished to the all-but-whimpering little pair below them.

Mashka propped herself up on her elbow and waved the fan over Anastasia's flushed face.

In the doorway, a guard cleared his throat. "Anastasia Nicholaevna, you are wanted in the kitchens."

"Why?" she demanded, fluttering her eyelashes at the ceiling.

"The instructor Yurovsky hired to teach you to make black bread has just arrived."

Anastasia blanched. This couldn't be for real. They couldn't have called her bluff, and on the hottest day since they moved in here to boot!

But the guard's face wasn't one of a man who was joking. He looked utterly serious, and she had no choice but to pull herself up off the floor and follow him. At least, if nothing else, this would be something new to do.

Maybe even somebody new to speak with, if the instructor was pleasant.

If it weren't so ungodly _hot_ , she'd have been almost excited.

Curious, and plainly glad for any reason to leave the common room, Maria and Alexei – hobbling on his cane, despite their Mama's weak protests – went with her.

Perhaps they wondered what sort of person Yurovsky had brought into the house to teach their favorite sister to bake – or else maybe they just wanted to see what Anastasia would look like covered in flour and struggling to knead the dough. They might even join in themselves, make a loaf of their own for the family's consumption, if the guards permitted it.

It sounded almost – _almost_ , though not _quite_ – like fun.

When they reached the kitchens, the bread-making instructor's back was to them.

As he turned around, a surprising thing happened – both Maria and Alexei let out whoops of delight (Alexei even dropping his cane on the floor in the process) and went over to this young man as quick as they could, crying out in any and every language their excitement translated to at the moment. Russian, English, French, and even the odd German word flew out of their mouths as they clung to him.

This is perhaps a little less shocking when _Anastasia's_ reaction is considered.

It had taken barely a half-turn of the head for Maria and Alexei to recognize him.

But, of course, Anastasia knew him _before_ he began to turn. The second she saw his back, she _knew_. She had frozen in place with a look of such rapture on her face that even the volatile Heathcliff himself could not have managed if he'd suddenly come upon his beloved Cathy, not as a haunting specter, but miraculously alive in the flesh in the middle of an ordinary day.

Strangely, the man whose sides Maria and Alexei were showering with their sloppy embraces, made no motion to return their affectionate gestures.

"Do you know these children?" The guard frowned at Anastasia's new instructor, suspicious.

"No, sir," he replied dryly, shaking them off. "I've never seen them before in my life – they've obviously confused me with somebody else."

Hurt flared in Alexei's eyes, his smile turning fast into a scowl of one betrayed.

Maria only gaped, bewildered. She almost wondered if she _could_ have mistaken him. But, no, surely it _was_ him! Anastasia would not be gazing at a stranger as if God had answered her prayers in the eleventh hour, nor would Alexei have had that reaction to a strange baker-man, strong resemblance notwithstanding. Her own reaction she could discount – silly old Mashka, dumb Marie, making a ridiculous mistake. But _theirs_? Her two younger siblings whose judgment she sometimes trusted well above her own intuition? _Never._ Not them.

"This," the guard now introduced them, "is Alexander Tchaïkovsky. Official instructor of bread-making in the House of Special Purpose."

Collecting herself, Anastasia numbly extended her hand as formally as she was able, willing it to stop shaking. "Pleased to meet you."

Tchaïkovsky glanced at the guard, then stuck his own hand behind his back, declining to take hers.

"Please keep in mind," the guard continued, still warily eyeing their interactions as if not fully convinced by their cold, standoffish manner, "that this man has been hired strictly as an instructor, not a companion. He is permitted to speak to you only about bread and baking, nothing else.

"And you will address him _only_ in Russian, just as you would any one of us."

Tchaïkovsky tore his eyes away from the youngest grand duchess before the guard could catch him anxiously sizing up the only partially healed marks on her face.

Alexei almost left, he was so confused and hurt, but the thought of returning to that common room, near to tears, and having to explain himself to the big pair and his parents held him back. So when Maria dragged over a chair for him, he sat, settling in to watch his sister learn to make black bread.

* * *

Dimitri wanted to scream in frustration. He had imagined that getting into the house would be the most difficult part. That once he convinced the Bolsheviks he was a baker (hardly difficult, since he'd worked in the kitchens and really _did_ know how to make black bread), the rest would fall into place. He would somehow, he'd foolishly believed, manage to get the family alone and explain himself – he would be able to tell them about Lili, madly wandering around Yekaterinburg, longing to see them. He even imagined Alexandra would be so glad at the news that her lady-in-waiting was so close, she might give him one of those rare, special smiles (the kind she usually saved only for Alexei) in exchange for his delivering it.

He was, he now realized, a complete idiotka.

Finding out this Yurovsky person wanted someone to teach Anastasia how to make bread, convincing him he was the right person for the job, and creating a fake identity as Alexander Tchaïkovsky had been _child's play_ to what he now faced.

Shaking off Maria and Alexei when all he wanted to do was draw them closer had been hard enough, but seeing Anastasia had been far worse. He hadn't let himself take her hand while his expression was visible from where the guard stood. He knew his face would betray him the very moment her hand was in his.

He was not allowed to tell her _anything_. How could he explain about Lili, or ask if she'd been hurt by that ex-guard in the tavern, or even suggest that he would like to help her family find a way to escape, letting them in on just how bad things were with the Reds on the outside, if he was only allowed to speak about bloody _sour dough_?

Wasn't the damn guard _ever_ going to leave? Didn't he have any other duties?

Still, just seeing her near him again gave him such a mix of delight and horror he had to restrain himself from collapsing on the floor and blaming it on the heat.

Delight, because it had been too long, he had missed her, and now here she was. Horror, because _something_ had happened to her – she showed signs of injury, inside and out, and her face was so deathly _pale_. She was not being treated right here, nor was she happy behind these walls (not even in the marginally contented way she had tolerated the house in Tobolsk).

 _That_ much he could tell.

He later discovered he was very lucky to have seen the younger ones (Maria, Anastasia, and Alexei) first. Had he seen the thin, gaunt look of the big pair without being eased into this fresh horror with the youngest, he might have yelped involuntarily and given himself away. Olga in particular had been horridly aged in this ghastly place. If she had resembled her mother as closely as Tatiana did, Dimitri might almost have mistaken her for Alexandra.

When Anastasia worked at kneading the dough under his instruction, he feigned aggravation at her incompetence and, turning his head away from the guard's line of vision, put his arms around her to adjust her grip on the dough.

"Like _that_ ," he said, forcing himself to sound gruff. "Not the other way you were doing it!"

She bit her lower lip, holding back tears the guard doubtless thought were brought on by the instructor's harsh tone.

He had no clue that, after scolding her kneading, 'Alexander Tchaïkovsky' had leaned close to the former princesses' ear and whispered the one tender word he could risk.

" _Dusha_."


	28. Milk Notes

_Milk Notes_

"What is this?" the guard demanded, motioning at a set of milk bottles suspended from a metal rack, the handle of which Dimitri held a little too tightly in his right hand.

The obvious answer was _milk_ , as the bottles were see-through, but clearly that wasn't what the guard meant.

"For the younger Romanov children," he said, his voice as emotionless as he could manage, spontaneously coughing up a lung for the small cover choking on his own spittle provided.

The guard's brow furrowed. "You're not, by any chance, growing _fond_ of them, are you, Tchaïkovsky?"

Dimitri feigned shock. " _Nyet_ , sir! Naturally not."

"Then why this gift? Perhaps you are harboring some tenderness for the little ex-princess under your tutelage?"

 _Too_ close to the truth; enough to make Dimitri panic and choke for real, before clearing his throat, forcing an indulgent smirk. "It is not from _me_ , Comrade."

"Oh?"

"The young novice, from the nearby church, across the way." He pointed with his thumb, over his shoulder. "She saw I was going in and out of this house – _she_ gave me the milk for the children." He sighed. "You know what these superstitious women are like – you can't tell them no, not with all their crossing and bowing and crying out to God. It takes so much time to explain even the simplest refusal to them, and I didn't wish to arrive late – I do _need_ this job, you understand."

The guard's face softened the smallest fraction. "Indeed."

That was when Dimitri panicked again, making another mistake. He noticed, out of his peripheral vision, Gleb chatting amiably with four other guards as they walked past. His first instinct was to block his face from Gleb to avoid being recognized by him. So he had ducked slightly and covered the side of his face with his hand.

Suspicious all over again, the guard he was speaking with grunted, "Sun in your eyes?"

"Um, _yeah_. That's right."

"The sun is coming from _that_ direction, you idiotka." Yanking one of the milk bottles out of the rack, he ripped off the cork, spilled out half the creamy contents wastefully onto the ground, then shook the glass bottle to make sure there was nothing but the white liquid inside. "You're cleared." He thrust the bottle at Dimitri's abdomen. "Just get into the kitchen, stay there, and don't cause any trouble."

As he walked into the kitchen, suspending his hat on the small hook by the pantry, he saw Anastasia was already waiting for him.

She was sitting on a low stool with her hands folded in her lap, feigning demureness, and wearing the blue dress he'd given her for her eighteenth birthday; it was looking rather a bit worn out, but was still a most pleasant – even arousing sight – to his biased eyes.

"The church novice sends you some milk, Comrade Romanova," he said, setting the rack down beside her stool.

"Thank you," she replied with such exaggerated frostiness it reminded him of the little melodramatic plays she used to put on for her family as a child.

"Now, how many loaves would you like to make for your family's next tea?"

"Four, I should think."

He almost risked saying something else but then noticed a blonde-haired guard – not particularly unfriendly-looking, but still a guard nonetheless – watching them.

"That's a bit indulgent, isn't it?" he said pompously.

Anastasia folded her arms across her chest and hopped down from her stool. "That is not for _you_ to say, baker-man." She held her head a little higher. "You forget yourself."

He whirled around and grabbed her shoulders. "You forget _your_ self! Your family is not in charge of Russia any longer, and praise God for that!"

Anastasia's eyes widened – not with the pretend fear that was supposed to be from his almost violent reaction, grabbing her like that, but with real fear for his mistake and if it would be noticed – or commented on – by Ivan.

Dimitri had gotten so into his performance, so eager to appear to despise her family, he'd forgotten that most Bolsheviks were atheists. A true Red supporter would have been very unlikely to bring _God_ into it.

Realizing his mistake too late, Dimitri fought back a grimace, but knew it was too late to turn back the clock; it was still now or never.

He had, after all, grabbed her for a reason, and he didn't know how long he had.

Putting his lips close to her ear and tightening his grasp on one of her arms to make the gesture look more brusque than it actually was, he whispered, "The _cork_ , in the milk bottle – the one that's still full."

The blonde guard tapped the side of his hand against the doorway and cleared his throat, hemming pointedly. "Please restrain yourself, Comrade Tchaïkovsky. She meant you no _real_ harm or insult – unhand the young lady."

Dimitri was so surprised by how, for lack of a better term, _gallant_ this particular guard's manner of speaking was – so uncharacteristic of the other neanderthals stationed in this house – that he, barely remembering to actually let Anastasia go in the process, stared at him for a few moments with raised eyebrows. Where in Mother Russia had they picked up _this_ polite fellow?

"Are you all right, Comrade Romanova?" he double-checked, allowing 'Alexander' a moment to compose himself.

She lifted her hair off the back of her perspiring neck. "I'm fine, Ivan, thank you."

It was difficult, but Dimitri managed to keep up the surly-instructor charade until the last of the four loafs was taken out of the oven and left to cool. Then he nodded causally and put his hat back on, watching out of the corner of his eye as Anastasia snatched the full milk bottle off the rack and disappeared from sight.

* * *

Inside the cork, Anastasia discovered a small, folded note. For a fleeting moment she was irrationally disappointed that it was not a personal note to _her_. Then she realized wanting such a thing was probably very selfish. Things were serious now, and it was more important that a message get passed on to her entire family. It was no time to wish for a love letter.

Most of the note was a warning to Nicholas about the Reds' growing influence here, and mentions of a growing rumor Dimitri had heard about the White army preparing to take Yekaterinburg by storm any day now. True or not, many a Bolshevik was in fear of that very thing happening, which would doubtless account for any extra security measures that were currently affecting the Romanovs. He also told them that he had met Lili outside of a tavern, that she was eagerly looking for a way into the house to see them but couldn't get around the relentless guards. For his own self, he apologized for the ruse of pretending to be a baker-man and a Red, as well as any snubs he would have to bestow upon them to keep up the facade, but could come up with no other means of getting in touch with them.

 _I have_ , he finished, _hidden the items you entrusted me – or rather my greatcoat – with. I have sold only what I needed to find my way here and live in the meantime; the rest are safe, buried under a tree, and I will return them to you as soon as you are freed from this house._

"What does he mean?" Alexandra had asked, not fully comprehending.

"The _medicines_ , Mama," Olga explained softly. "The ones we sewed into his greatcoat."

"He is saying he has kept most of them safe – hidden – for _us_?" Alexandra sounded shocked. "He has only sold a few gems, perhaps? He wants to...give them... _back_?"

"Yes, Mama." Olga patted her mother's hand awkwardly.

"He always was an admirable lad, underneath it all. And a loyal one," Nicholas put in gently. "We could hardly have picked a more suitable companion for our son all those years ago, kitchen boy or not."

Anastasia blushed; Maria noticed and poked her in the side teasingly.

More to himself than the rest of them, Nicholas added, in a soft murmur, "At least that's _one_ thing I got right when I was tsar. At least _that_."

"Should we say something back?" Alexei asked next, nibbling on his thumbnail. "Or would it be too dangerous for him?"

"It should be well enough," Nicholas decided, stroking his beard pensively. "If we were to put our note back into the cork, just where his was, and our dear, brave Shvibzik..." Here he stopped and smiled affectionately at his youngest daughter. "If she was to return the empty bottle, perhaps with a request – she is bold, so the guards would not think it strange – for him to ask the novice to refill it."

"There isn't a _real_ novice, though, is there, Papa?" Maria asked.

"It's doubtful," he admitted. "Likely Dimitri – or, should I say, Comrade Tchaïkovsky – is working on his own."

"He must be so frightened," Maria sighed, her hand flying to her throat. "And, to _think_ – Alexei and I nearly gave him away with our horrid display in the kitchen that first day he came!"

"What _I_ want to know," snorted Tatiana, rolling her eyes, "is, was _Tchaïkovsky_ really the best he could come up with?"

"Someone's coming," Botkin warned them, putting his finger to his lips. "One of the guards."

Nicholas stuffed the note into his breast pocket. The girls busied themselves with whatever was at hand, eager only to look preoccupied. Alexandra took up her sewing again as if she had never stopped. She rarely _did_ , in fact, so this was doubtless very convincing.

* * *

"How many loaves _today_ , Comrade Romanova?"

Anastasia smiled and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Five."

"Yesterday," Dimitri pointed out, trying to sound cross, "it was only _four_."

"We were still hungry after tea yesterday." With that, she pressed the empty milk bottle into his hand. "My brother would like some more milk from the novice, if you could ask her."

"Why _should_ I?"

"Because, Tchaïkovsky," she huffed, pouting melodramatically, "a young boy is ill and would like more milk! Are you a gentleman in the least?"

"Fine." He blinked as condescendingly as he could manage. "I _might_ ask the novice _if_ you stop talking."

"Fine, I'll be quiet _if_ you get my brother the milk!"

"I'd like to see you try – I don't think you _can_ be quiet."

" _Enough_ , you two," the guard in the doorway moaned, leaning in. "Can't you make bread without bickering? Tchaïkovsky, just get her brother the damn milk and have done with it."

Removing the cork from the empty milk bottle after leaving the house and getting beyond the yard, Dimitri found a note in a hand identical to the scrap of paper in his coat pocket.

It had worked, then.

He had found a way to communicate with them at last.

* * *

"Fresh milk from Alexander's novice. All clear?" Anastasia asked, entering the common room after her baking lesson.

The family nodded, almost in unison, setting aside their activities in anticipation.

For show – in case the guards came, and because he really _did_ want some – they poured a glass for Alexei before fishing Dimitri's latest note from the cork.

This one did not have the sentimental cushioning of being the first note from a friend long out of contact with them and, thus, was taken more harshly and found more fault with.

In it, Dimitri had inquired if it was remotely possibly for them to convince the guards to open just _one_ of the limed windows – perhaps in the girls' bedroom, or Alexei's.

"He might as well have asked for the _moon_ ," Tatiana groused. "I thought he was smarter than that."

"And what does he mean about _rope_? _What_ rope?" Alexandra added crossly. "And if Botkin 'has' anything for Alexei to sleep? Is he seriously talking about _drugging_ Baby?"

"Alix," Nicholas protested, "we have Botkin give him drugs for pain all the time – whenever there is anything that might help." A tricky problem, as Alexei could not have Aspirin, the most common reliever.

"This is different!"

Olga shook her head. "It's _moot_ , is what it is."

Anastasia glared. Dimitri was risking his life for them even more with his – admittedly far-fetched to the point of being downright fanciful – escape plans than with sneaking into the house as a baker in the first place.

They might, she thought, with growing annoyance, have been more grateful to him.

"Darling, don't look at us like that – we don't mean anything _bad_ by it," Olga amended, touching her littlest sister's shoulder. "It's not _him_ we're frustrated with, you understand. But it is too impossible! Even if we could get one window open, and poor Sunbeam sedated, there is no way we would all climb down on a rope at night without being seen. There are too many of us."

"And think how bad," Maria worried, a quiver in her voice, "things will be for Papa if he's caught trying to get away – something horrible might happen to us."

"Something horrible has _already_ happened!" Anastasia snapped, tears filling her eyes. "Or do you all wake up every morning and forget where we are?"

" _Anastasia_!" chided Alexandra.

Alexei paled and couldn't meet his favorite sister's eyes for shame. He felt keenly that she was right, but could not argue with the others, as they made good points too.

Besides, he was frightened and insulted by the notion of being drugged and lowered out a window like stolen cargo.

"It can always get worse, dear," Tatiana reminded her, reaching for a pen to begin their reply. "We will simply have to tell Dimitri his plan – if you can _call_ it that – is no good."

"He'll think of something else," Maria – ever the optimist – suggested brightly, leaning across the couch to stroke Pooka's silky gray ears.

"Tatya, your hand is shaking," Olga noted. "I think _I_ had better write the reply this time."

"Be sure you add..." Alexandra started.

Anastasia buried her face in her hands and groaned, plainly agonized.

* * *

 _We do not want to, nor_ can _we,_ escape _. We can only be carried off by force. Thus, do not count on any active help from us._

It was, then, as Dimitri had begun to fear: the Romanovs had been in a cage too long – imprisoned in such excess that they'd grown so compliant even an open door and turned backs would hardly tempt them to flee.

Setting the letter down on the ground and sinking into the grass with his back against a tree, safely secluded in the concealed clearing he had chosen to read their reply in, Dimitri bitterly muttered, " _Damn_ them."


	29. Maria's Birthday

_Maria's Birthday_

Anastasia slid into the kitchen, an excited energy buzzing around her like an aura she couldn't hide, try though she desperately did.

She couldn't help it – with things becoming bleaker with each passing day in the House of Special Purpose, she looked forward, more and more, to her baking lessons with 'Alexander Tchaïkovsky'. She had lain awake half the night thinking of what phrases with double-meanings she might slip into their 'arguments'; things the guards wouldn't pick up on but Dimitri probably would.

Her plans included making him stay longer to help her with more loaves, using Maria's upcoming birthday as an excuse. If they couldn't have a real party for her sister, why not a little more bread? Surely his alter ego Alexander could not deny such a harmless request.

She was dressed in a white blouse and pale blue skirt, and had tied her hair back with a matching ribbon. Despite the heat making her hair somewhat limp, she thought she looked decent.

She wished there was some way to apologize for what had likely been a very upsetting reply from her family to Dimitri's last note – or, better still, to tell him what Maria had said, that he would think of something else. Something more suitable. A way out of this house without such unspeakable risks.

Also, she wondered what would be in his next note. Maybe he _had_ thought of something else already, a Plan B, and they'd finally know what it was.

Perhaps he had more word from Lili. Maybe she, right now, was working with some hidden wealth to fund a rescue mission – then her family could be carried off, as they told Dimitri they preferred, and not have to risk actively running away.

But Lili, having been imprisoned for so long and having doubtless bled herself dry hunting them all the way to Yekaterinburg, wouldn't have much left to spare. And even the wealth Dimitri had hidden under that tree, their own jewels, wouldn't be enough for something like that. It would be asking people – people who might care about the Romanovs in theory but not necessarily as persons – to do something very dangerous. Take on a house of Bolsheviks with guns and other deadly weapons; not to mention the backing of the current government.

Shaking her head, Anastasia willed those thoughts away. She needed to stay positive. She needed to _hope_ , even if it wasn't her area of expertise. Maybe if she mimicked Maria more some of her sister's endless optimism would rub off on her.

Well, regardless of any of that, she'd be seeing Dimitri in a few moments. That would have to be good enough for the time being.

She re-positioned herself on her stool six times in anxious anticipation, smoothing her skirt and fussing over the way her legs were crossed.

He was late, by about five minutes, much to her frustration, but finally he did walk in, hang his hat on the usual hook, and turn to her.

She was struck, then. It was as if she were sitting on a loose wire.

His eyes were expressionless, lined with dark circles, and he carried no milk bottles.

"Where's the milk for my brother?" she demanded, leaping up with her hands on her hips, trying to hide her true concerns from the bored guard smoking a cigarette in the doorway.

He didn't meet her eyes. "No milk today, Comrade Romanova."

"Yes, I can see that," she huffed. "And why _not_?"

"There's no point," he said, "relying on me to bring milk – from now on you will have to find our own way of getting it." He swallowed. "Might I suggest purchasing a dairy cow?"

"And where would we keep it?" Anastasia laughed, trying to make her tone sound more haughty than broken. "In our bedroom? Don't be absurd."

"I'm not going to be around to deliver it anymore," he said pointedly.

She felt the blood run out of her face. "What? Why?"

His knuckles, as he grasped the side of the clean mixing bowl, turned white. "Yurovsky has decided your bread-making skills are now adequate; my employment here has ended."

Almost betraying herself, Anastasia reached over to snag his wrist. " _No_!"

He kept up the cool pretense when she could not – though what it cost him, she couldn't tell – moving away before her hand made contact. "Control yourself, _please_. I'm only here to gather my effects: my kitchen tools and such."

Of course, he had brought in no such tools, using only what was already in the kitchen from the moment he arrived that first day – it was only an excuse to see her this last time, his way of saying goodbye without actually saying goodbye.

Anastasia felt as though the floor was falling out under her feet. This was worse than their separation at the station. She had had no way of saying goodbye with him still back on that train and herself in the wagon. But here, here in this stuffy God-forsaken house, they were only mere inches apart, standing before each other, and she couldn't even hug him goodbye or wish him well.

They _might_ risk a handshake, but it was not enough, and she couldn't keep the charade up a moment longer.

Having lost him once, never knowing if they would meet again, had almost destroyed her. Now, it was happening all over again, and it was asking far too much of her to simply smile and _cope_.

Turning on her heels, she raced from the kitchen, even pushing past the puzzled guard, running through the house until she reached her bedroom and threw herself into her cot, pulling the blankets over her head despite the heat.

* * *

A hand touched her back through the blankets. Anastasia groaned but did not show her head. Vaguely, she assumed it was Alexei or one of her sisters, come to check on her, surprised that she had not returned to the common room with a new note, but did not care enough to talk to them at the moment.

"Ana, _please_ , we don't have long."

 _Dimitri._ She pulled back the topmost blanket and poked her head out. "How did you get in here?"

"I convinced the guard I have a serious medical condition and would die in horrible convulsions right in front of him if he didn't let me use the lavatory before leaving this house." Dimitri shrugged. "I have roughly five minutes before he comes looking for me; but we need to keep our voices low."

"So this is it, then?" she croaked, sitting up. "You're going and can't come back?"

He closed his eyes, sighing painfully. "I'm sorry."

"You were our last hope." Her voice was growing pitifully small.

Opening his eyes, he snapped, struggling to maintain his low tone, "I'm doing everything I can! And none of you are willing to _help me_."

She didn't argue that she had had nothing to do with that reply. It didn't matter now. She might as well stand by her family, the way her pride was urging her to. "Don't you get that it's dangerous for _us_ too? We're not just some lifeless dolls locked in a child's playhouse!"

"I _know_ that," he groaned, putting his hand to his forehead and pushing back his hair.

Standing and climbing out of the cot, she reached for his hands, squeezing them gently. "Please don't give up entirely."

He gnawed on his lower lip. " _Never_."

"And if... If they move us again..."

"I'll find you," he swore. "Maybe Alexander Tchaïkovsky can get a job _there_ , too."

"That would be nice." She cracked a weak smile through her streaming tears. "I liked him, even if he was infuriating, and not too clean."

Dimitri shot her a look of feigned insult, then pulled her into an embrace, holding her as close to him as he could, locking his arms tightly around her.

"If we make it through this," she murmured into his ear, after planting a quick kiss on his cheek, "remind me to thank you."

"Ah, so _you're_ Alexander Tchaïkovsky," said a voice in the doorway, the tone remarkably conversational. "I thought you might be."

Jumping apart, Anastasia and Dimitri turned to see Gleb standing there, an expression of tolerated amusement on his face.

" _Gleb_ ," Anastasia blurted.

Dimitri just looked cross. "Hello again."

" _Delighted_ ," replied Gleb, rather dryly, and not as if he _was_ particularly delighted to see him again.

"Gleb, please don't tell anyone," Anastasia tried, desperate.

He winced. "I won't, but only if he leaves right _now_."

Dimitri headed for the doorway; Gleb grabbed his arm. "This is a foolish thing you're doing, _Tchaïkovsky_. You'd be wise to accept the changes life has handed you and give it up. Be _careful_ , Comrade. Be very careful."

Shaking his head, he pulled his arm free and brushed by without a single word of rebuttal.

Struck again by the sudden realization that, if things went badly, this final glimpse of Dimitri's retreating back _was_ likely to be the last time she would see him for a long, long while, Anastasia sank down beside her cot, her face in her hands.

Stepping awkwardly, like a man who has never known God walking into a church courtyard, Gleb came into the room and put his hand on her shoulder. "Comrade Romanova."

"Go away," she whispered through her half-splayed fingers.

"You'd do better to try and forget about him," Gleb pressed on relentlessly, meaning to be comforting but rapidly sliding off the mark. "You'll only keep breaking your heart over and over this way."

"It's _my_ heart to break," she growled, dropping her hands into her lap and glaring up at him.

"It's unkind of you, don't you see that?"

" _How_ is it unkind?"

"Comrade Romanova, you need to let him go," he insisted, ignoring her growing tetchiness. "Let him find his place in the new order. Don't you understand that's the best, safest life for him now? Let him take up _honest_ work, for once."

Angrily shrugging his hand off her shoulder, Anastasia hissed, "You call serving my family his whole life _dishonest_ work?"

"It's not only _me_ speaking, my friend, it's the government," Gleb told her, with almost sickening patriotic cheerfulness oozing from his manner, his expression hardening. "You see, for Russia to–"

But Anastasia didn't want to hear another word; she couldn't take a moment more of his Bolshie drivel.

"Get _away_ from me, Gleb," she snarled through her teeth. "Before I say something to you I'll regret."

* * *

Everybody in the Romanov family did their best to make things nice for Maria's birthday. After much pleading and whining, Alexei and Anastasia even got grudging permission from Yurovsky to hang a few pathetic paper streamers up in the dining room. Olga had put a puffy bow around Pooka's neck like an oversize lace collar; which the poor dog, whimpering under the table, kept trying to scratch off with his hind paws.

There weren't many presents, no fancy baubbles, just a few handmade cards and trinkets from each of them. Anastasia in particular regretted that she could not return the favor Maria had done her on her eighteenth birthday and give her a string of pearls; she would have dearly loved to do so.

Still, for all Maria's excessive delight over every small detail, one might have thought she was being led into a ballroom hung with gold and silver.

Every present was declared 'darling', every small treat scrimped for to be had at this moment, on this special day, brought tears to her eyes. She loved it all, and expressed her pleasure through endless hugs and reassurances of how truly wonderful everything was.

She was already full to bursting with happiness when Ivan walked in, carrying something covered with a cloth, and her heart overflowed.

"Forgive my intrusion," Ivan said, nodding to the family, all seated in their places, except for Maria – who had gotten overexcited and risen to meet him. "I heard it was a special occasion, and I wished to offer the birthday lady a small gift." He held up the cloth-covered, round object. "With your permission, sir?" His eyes were on Nicholas, more respect in his expression than any of this young man's comrades had offered their former tsar in ages.

Nicholas nodded his consent, and Ivan placed the object on the table, pulling the cloth away to reveal a neat, round yellow cake with no frosting.

" _Cake_!" squealed Maria and Alexei, clapping, nearly in unison.

Even Olga, who had been showing so little interest in food lately, perked up.

"You'll have some, too, won't you, Mama?" Tatiana checked, thinking it might bring some of the color back to Alexandra's sallow cheeks.

"Perhaps I might, darling, I almost feel I _could_ ," was her reply. Then, she did not _quite_ smile at Ivan, but there was gratitude in her expression. "Thank you for your thoughtful gift, young man."

"It is too much!" Maria said, grinning ear to ear, her cheeks going scarlet as she gazed adoringly at Ivan. "It must have cost you a fortune to save up all the ingredients."

He looked away, mildly embarrassed. "My mother baked it," he admitted, "and had to make a couple of substitutions here and there – you'd better try some before thanking me _too_ much."

Nicholas began cutting the cake into neat slices, giving everyone one sliver each on a porcelain plate.

Olga and Tatiana politely began choking theirs down, trying to keep grateful expressions on their faces while Ivan struggled not to laugh, blurting out profuse apologizes which they told him to never mind.

Anastasia grimaced; Alexei coughed and declared, rather bluntly, that it tasted like chalk.

Maria claimed there was nothing wrong with it, even as she gagged a little, and praised Ivan all over again as if it were the daintiest of delicacies shipped in from a French bakery.

Alexandra, seeing her children react to the cake, declined to taste hers after all, and Nicholas followed suit.

Still, everyone seemed pleased with the way things were going; the guard was laughing with the family as if he were one and the same with them, prisoners though they might be, and – in that moment at least – the grudge between the Reds and the deposed royalty they didn't know what to do with simply did not exist.

There was not a drop of resentment or animosity. Not between this handsome Bolshevik and the delighted Birthday Princess and her family.

And then, just like _that_ , the moment ended.

Yurovsky, his stern, usually unreadable face unable to hide his fury, stormed in and demanded Ivan join him in his office.

Anastasia got up without pushing in her chair and snagged Maria's wrist. "Come on!"

"Come on? Come on, _where_?" she asked, still trembling from Yurovsky's obvious anger, afraid of the trouble Ivan might be in for being so kind to them.

Without answering, Anastasia dragged a dazed Maria from the dining room, ignoring the numerous vocal protests from her parents and other two sisters, not stopping until they reached the outside of Yurovsky's makeshift office.

"What are we _doing_ here?" Maria asked, her saucers getting wider by the second.

"Do you _want_ to hear what he says to Ivan or _don't_ you?" Anastasia huffed, still struggling to fully catch her breath.

Perhaps more than the others, Anastasia had discerned how deep Maria's feelings for Ivan were beginning to run. After what had happened, with Dimitri leaving, she didn't want her favorite sister to suffer lack of closure. Mashka needed to know what happened to this man she was obviously falling in love with, even if it could never go anywhere, never develop to the point the relationship between her little sister and her brother's companion had.

* * *

"There is no longer a place for you here." Yurovsky did not even look at Ivan as he spoke, staring instead at a poorly defined painting on the far wall, pacing with his hands behind his back. "You will place your gun on my desk, and you will leave."

"I meant no disrespect – I only wanted to do something nice for them," Ivan protested, nonetheless unstrapping the pistol from his side and placing it down on Yurovsky's desk.

"That is," he answered darkly, "precisely why you are not needed here any longer."


	30. What We Must

_What We Must_

As Anastasia stepped out of the water closet, she focused on re-buttoning the cuff of her blouse sleeve so she wouldn't have to make eye-contact with Gleb, today's escort. After her bad experience, she was long past the point where she was foolhardy enough to risk using the lavatory without one, but she was still angry with him.

How _dare_ he act as though Dimitri was a criminal simply for being loyal to the family he had served since childhood!

Gleb wouldn't be happy, she imagined, until every young man of royal blood was imprisoned or exiled and every common man declared his favorite color to be red and swore loyalty to Lenin.

"Comrade Romanova," Gleb leaned over, standing too close now for her to keep ignoring him. "Might I have a private word?"

"I have nothing to say to you," she muttered.

"It is important – as your friend, I ask you to hear me out."

Flashes of all the pictures he'd given her, all the stories and notes, flickered through her mind, poking at her conscience. Could she ask this Bolshevik to change his nature – be on her side, even in a small way – when she would never consent to be on his? They had been on opposite sides of the fence, so to speak, from the very beginning.

Dimitri _had_ warned her, even if a great deal of his warnings came from unwarranted jealousy. She had been so eager for a friend, however, she had chosen not to listen.

In light of that, perhaps she did owe Gleb his opportunity to speak now. If he _did_ say more upsetting things, she could always go back to frostily ignoring him. What harm could it do?

Ever so slightly, she nodded her head, exhaling in defeat.

He took her arm – gently, not rough in his grasp, just firm enough so that if she changed her mind suddenly she couldn't immediately squirm free of it – and led her into a small, musty-smelling room (more of a cupboard, really) off to the side of the water closet.

It was dark in the room; there was barely enough light for them to make out each others' faces.

"Comrade, do you think about your future?"

She shivered, despite the warmth of the day, the room, and their dual body heat in this tiny space. "What is there to think about? How could anyone in my position make plans, not knowing what your government means to do with us?"

His expression softened, and he reached out to touch the side of her face. "You don't realize it, do you?"

"Realize _what_?" She wasn't sure she liked the way he was touching her face now, stroking her jawbone with his thumb.

"That, if only you weren't a Romanov, things could be... _different_...for you."

"Different, how?"

"You could be an ordinary person," he told her. "You could have a job, make a life for yourself. The only things holding you back are your name, firstly, and – of course, rather unfortunately – the imperial blood that runs through your veins."

"What are you getting at?"

" _Anastasia_..."

She shivered again. This was the first time he had ever called her by her first name.

"What if there was another identity you could take on? What if you could be somebody else?"

"Somebody else?" What on _earth_?

"You're a girl, so if you were to marry someone and take _their_ name, that would be one problem gone."

Her heart started racing. He was still touching her face, and now she was fairly certain she didn't like it.

"Then," he went on, "if you had no children – if your husband was a man who understood the delicate situation – why, that would solve the second problem, too. No more Romanovs coming from you, no claimants to the long-gone throne. And you'd live your life happily enough to its conclusion – both sides win."

" _What_ ," she breathed, "are you _saying_?"

"Vagonov is a good name, a good family." Gleb raised his eyebrows. "I would take care of you, protect you."

"Protect me from what?" She jerked her face away from him. "What aren't you telling me?"

"If you take my offer, you might never have to know."

Clenching her jaw, Anastasia backed up as far as she could in the narrow space. "I could never marry you, Gleb."

He looked hurt. "I thought you cared for me."

"I do," she admitted, "but not like that."

"You could come to, in time."

" _Gleb_ ," she tried to be a little kinder. "You know I'm in love with somebody else."

"He's part of the past you'll have to let go," he said, not exactly callously, though she took it that way. "You wouldn't be the only woman in the world to marry somebody who was not her first love. Life simply works out that way, sometimes.

"Besides, it's what's best for you."

"What's best for me..." She swallowed. "What about my family? Are you going to change their names, too? And my sister, Maria; she _wants_ to have children, twenty of them – are you going to tell her she can't because your stupid Bolshevik government doesn't want her to? And how do you think you would convince Papa to change his name, or give his consent to my marrying you? He would never agree."

"You think we would take your family with us?" Gleb was nonplussed, struggling not to laugh incredulously at her naivety. "Don't you understand my offer is only for _you_? I'm trying to protect you _and_ stay true to what I believe – I would never take the former tsar from his prison, or his German wife."

"You think I would run off with you and _abandon_ them? That I would choose you – _you_ – over my _family_?"

Her expression was appalled, prideful; more closely resembling her mother, the former Tsarina Alexandra, than any look Gleb had ever seen Anastasia's face wear.

He hadn't known she _could_ look like that.

"You're not like them," he said, a little shakily, as if to reassure himself as much as to convince her. "You're not like the others in your family."

Her breath came in shorter spurts, her blue eyes darkening and narrowing. "If you believe that, Gleb, you don't know _anything_ about me."

"That's not true," he hissed anxiously, reaching for her arm, which she jerked away. "I...I know you... You're a good and loyal Russian. Without _them_ , no one would ever suspect–"

Any chance of his words winning her over was dampened greatly by the contempt with which he'd said 'them'.

"We are _all_ , my entire family," she growled, folding her arms across her chest, nearly bumping her elbows against the walls in the process, "good and loyal Russians."

"Do you know – or care – what I risk for you, even _having_ this conversation now?"

Anastasia sighed. "I don't know, and I don't care, and I'm not the person you've made me out to be in your mind."

"You're being pigheaded," he groaned. "If you would only consider it–"

"Gleb, listen, please – the person you want to marry, the person you're claiming to risk so much for isn't _me_."

"You can't deny who you really are," Gleb argued. "That's what the revolution is _for_ : all equals, no more pretenses."

"There is no pretense."

"Stop playing this game, I _beg_ you!"

"You call my life a _game_ , Gleb?" She sucked her teeth and exhaled sharply. "We both know it's not."

"Who _are_ you, Comrade Romanova?" His eyes seemed to doubt themselves for a moment, still seeing that unbearable prideful expression burning in her eyes.

Standing a little straighter, rolling her shoulders back, Anastasia boldly declared, "I am my father's daughter," and brushed past him, back into the hallway.

Snagging her wrist, he whispered, "My offer is only good until this afternoon – after that, there is nothing I can do for you."

"Keep your offer." She yanked her wrist free. "I don't _want_ it."

Gleb watched her march back towards the common room to rejoin her family, not only without waiting for him to escort her, but without even a single backwards glance.

Closing his eyes and chewing on the inside of his mouth, he took a moment to recompose himself, then whispered, "So be it, old friend. We will both do what we must."

Anastasia stopped at her brother's room, hearing a grunting noise from inside. "Alyosha?"

"Yes, I'm here," snapped Alexei, emerging from the room, barely managing to hobble on his cane.

"Your legs hurt you worse today," Anastasia realized.

He rolled his eyes. "For God's sake don't tell Mama, she's driving me mad."

"Who do you take me for? _Tatiana_? _I'm_ your fellow conspirator, remember?"

Scratching at his midsection, Alexei sighed, "I'm sorry, Ana, I'm just so itchy – Mama is making me wear an undershirt sewn with 'medicines' now, too. As if all four of you wearing corsets _loaded_ with the junk isn't enough!"

Lowering her voice, Anastasia weakly teased, "You can't scratch away pearls and diamonds, Alyosha."

"It's the damned wool they're wrapped in."

She raised her eyebrows.

"Don't tell Mama I cursed."

"My lips are sealed." She reached for his hand. "Come, lean on me. _You_ can be my escort back to the common room, Alexei Nicholaevich Romanov."

Accepting her offer and putting most of his weight on her, Alexei looked up and studied her face for a moment. "You're upset. Did that guard say something unkind?"

"Yes, he did," she replied coolly, looking straight ahead. "But don't worry – I've made him understand. He won't _think_ it, let alone _say_ it, again."

This seemed to please Alexei. "Oh? Well, _good_."

* * *

The room Yurovsky was using for an office seemed much smaller with the entire stock of remaining guards crowded in there, awaiting his orders.

He stood without support. Despite the heavy burden he was placing on the men under him, the mark – not unlike the mark of Cain – he was preparing to have branded on his own head for all eternity, he needed nothing to lean on. His hand did not rest on the desk, nor did either of his shoulders so much as once brush the wall.

"Understand, comrades, that any of you who turn back now will face prison time," he stated, his voice void of any emotion. "Any of you who turn back later, after this very hour, will have a bullet lodged in their skulls."

The men stood listening, unblinking.

"Any of you who shares a single word of what transpires in this house on the upcoming seventeenth of July will face far worse." Yurovsky waited, pausing to let that sink in. "I take it by your continued presence in this room, you have all agreed to my terms. Russia thanks you for your service, and for your nerves of steel."

" _Sir_?" One of the guards gestured to a box on Yurovsky's desk. "Might I inquire about the contents of that box?"

"Ah, yes, the box." Yurovsky turned and lifted the hinged lid. "Inside, there is a new pistol for each of you – these pistols have been thoroughly cleaned and carefully loaded. We can afford no mistakes."

"Yes, sir."

"On each of these, you will find a piece of paper tied to the handle." Yurovsky pointed at Gleb. "Vagonov, take yours now and show them."

Gleb stepped forward, his boots thudding on the floor in the dead-silent room, and stared down into the open box as if it were an abyss into which he'd rather never look but had the duty – even the honor – of jumping down inside of and knew he could not shrink away from it.

"Sir," he said slowly, "I don't know which gun is mine."

"Take the second from the left," Yurovsky told him, motioning with his bearded chin. "The top one there."

Doing so, Gleb awaited further orders.

"Now untie the string around the handle and remove the paper."

He obeyed.

"On each piece of paper," Yurovsky continued, looking each man pointedly in the eye now, "is the name of a member of the Romanov family. Whichever member's name is tied to your pistol, that is your assigned target – I strongly suggest aiming for the heart and making a quick, painless job of it."

Gleb stood there, not yet having taken that final leap into the abyss, the paper folded – with delightful anonymity – in his hand.

"Vagonov, unfold your paper."

Nodding, Gleb slowly unfolded the paper, secretly looking everywhere else – the individual folds, the sides, the tiny tear in one corner – before he properly looked at the name written there.

"Shouldn't he read it aloud, sir?" the guard who had asked about the box suggested.

" _Nyet_." Yurovsky sounded slightly annoyed by this. "I won't have you comparing and trading your assigned targets – these are not chocolates, and you are not schoolboys.

"You will read them, and then, you will keep them to yourself until the time for the task is at hand. I will imprison any sorry, disobedient bastard who does otherwise."

Gleb hardly heard him. He stared down at the paper in his hand, feeling like every pencil he'd ever written or drawn with in his life was broken into jagged shards and jammed down his throat.

His chest tightened, though his resolve refused to falter.

What were the _odds_?

If he believed in fate, instead of mere duty, he'd have called it that.

The name on the paper was _Anastasia Nicholaevna_.

His own words came back to him then: _We will both do what we must._


	31. July Seventeenth: Part One

_July Seventeenth: Part 1_

"Child, wake up."

Anastasia moaned and rolled onto her back, her fingers clutching at the side of her cot. She'd been having an uncomfortable dream that, while deeply unsettling, she had been absolutely engrossed in.

Even as a soft, kind voice urgently called her back into the world of the woken, the dream seemed to be pressing itself against her eyelids, fighting to hold onto her.

In it, she had been wandering through hundreds of deserted rooms in the Catherine Palace. Home again, even if it was hollow and looted and growing cobwebs, she had found herself in a state of ecstasy. Her feet seemed to guide her towards the ballroom.

She stopped by a mirror – under it, the lavish silver samovar Alexei had brought with them to Tobolsk once proudly stood.

Now there was only a ring of dust.

She examined her reflection for a moment, surprised to see it respond to her as if it were a separate entity. The girl in the mirror looked defeated, heartbroken. Silently she put her finger to her lips, as if in warning, though Anastasia had made no such movement herself. Then, ducking behind the gilded frame, the reflection disappeared entirely, reappearing with a brownie camera in her hands, snapping a picture of the real Anastasia.

Tearing her eyes away from her mirror-self, she had ventured past the french doors and into the bathroom.

She discovered a man there, standing with his back to her, and knew him – just as she had known him when he appeared in the kitchen as Alexander Tchaïkovsky.

Lifting her skirts, she ran to him, but found – to her continued vexation – that she could get no closer. No matter how hard she ran, he was always standing there, in the middle of the ballroom, and she was just as far away from him (somewhere near the stairs, it seemed) as before.

She tried to call out to him, but discovered she had no voice. She was as useless as the mirrored counterpart of herself she had passed by on her way in here.

The walls and windows lit up red as blood around her. She stopped trying to run, though she was still calling out with her soundless mouth, and looked down at the hem of her skirt.

For a moment, the flashing light had made it look as if it were bloodstained.

Then, that voice: _Child, wake up._

Thoughtless, she murmured, " _Dimitri_?"

"No, child, it's me – it's Doctor Botkin."

Her head felt weighted. What was Botkin doing in their bedroom?

"You need to wake up now," he urged her. "Yurovsky is moving us."

Olga sat up in her own cot. "What, _now_? In the middle of the night?"

"Yes, yes," said Botkin, sounding none too thrilled with it himself. "I'm not pleased either – I wasn't asleep, but they caught me right in the middle of trying to compose a letter."

"We'll help you wake the others," Olga said dutifully, getting up. "I'll wake Tatiana. Anastasia, wake up Maria and then go see if Alexei has been woken, if Mama hasn't done so already."

"Alexei is awake," Botkin told them, anxiously taking off his spectacles with shaking hands in order to wipe the gathering sweat off the rims with a dusty-looking handkerchief. "Your papa is helping him get ready. He'll probably need to be carried tonight; he can't walk, and I doubt they'll wait for his chair."

"Are we allowed to take anything?" Olga wanted to know.

Botkin shook his head. "They said our possessions will be brought along later."

After shaking Maria awake, Anastasia threw on her shoes and scooped up Pooka, clutching the yawning dog tightly to her chest. "Well, I am not leaving my dog."

Tatiana fought back a yawn of her own and started fussing over the little pair. "You've got your corsets on? _Both_ of you? And, Mashka, don't forget your little handbag there – surely they can't object to something so harmless. We can't go with _literally_ nothing. Oh, Anastasia, your hair! It looks _frightful_."

"I was _sleeping_ ," she protested.

"On _what_ , a ball of yarn? It's standing up on end like a cat's fur." Tatiana reached for a hairbrush and started yanking it through the top of her little sister's hairline. "Oh, do stand still for a moment, won't you?"

Anastasia swatted her away. "It's _fine_ , Tatya! Just help Olga."

"My coat has torn a seam." Olga lifted her arm, revealing a distinct rip.

"You don't need a heavy coat, it's summer," Botkin reminded her, sliding his spectacles back onto his face.

"You never know," Tatiana cut in. "What if they take us someplace colder?"

"Like _where_?" Anastasia groused. "The ninth circle of Hell? We're already in Siberia."

"Don't be fresh," Tatiana told her, wagging a finger then hastening to gather up her own handbag.

Clearing his throat, Botkin said, "I'll leave you now, to finish dressing. I'll be right outside the room if you need me," and exited the room.

"You don't think the Whites are finally taking Yekaterinburg, do you?" Maria wondered aloud, at Botkin's departure, looking a little dazed with the novel idea. "And _that's_ why they're making us move so suddenly? Maybe they'll rescue us tonight."

"There's no time to mend this coat," Olga mused; "should I take another?"

"Just keep your arm down," Anastasia suggested. "No one will notice."

"Not that anyone's notice is worth it anymore," Maria sighed. "Except for Gleb, none of the guards ever talks to us. Not that I blame them, after what happened to poor Ivan."

"Never mind your dismissed guard – _he_ probably gets to sleep the night through, wherever he is," Tatiana snapped.

"There's no time to change," Olga decided, resigned. "I'll keep this coat."

Anastasia had another thought. "Dimitri and Lili don't know we're being moved tonight." She gnawed at her lower lip and tightened her grasp on Pooka. "I hope they find us soon."

Olga, ceasing to fret over her torn coat sleeve in light of her sister's distress, came over and put her arm around her. "I'm sure they will, darling."

Maria put her arms around them both in a great, enfolding bear hug. "Me too – I'm sure they will, too. Haven't they always _so far_?"

* * *

"What's taking them so damn long?" one of the guards hissed, pacing back and forth outside the hall the Romanovs were supposed to emerge from, ready to be led to the basement. "Yurovsky told them it was urgent."

"Just like royals," another guard snorted in reply, looking down at a tiny bronze-plated watch strapped to his right wrist with thin leather straps. "Too posh to move their sorry backsides – even on their last night on earth."

A few feet from them, Gleb stood with one boot-heel propped backwards against the wall, smoking a cigarette in a vain attempt to calm his nerves. He kept reminding himself it was simple duty. It was what needed to be done. Besides, it was not as if he hadn't offered her a way out. He _had_ , even risking his own safety to do so, and she'd flatly refused him.

What was he to do in light of that, save for what he was told?

He must do it quickly. Make it as instant as possible. At best, she might never know what was happening. It wouldn't hurt her too badly – if he did it _right_ , it should be faster than falling asleep.

Better him, who had been her friend, than one of these other guards who didn't care if she suffered or not.

Now, if only he could keep his hands _steady_...

The sound of footsteps that were not the other guards' made him look up to see the former imperial family standing there, waiting.

The former tsar carried his son in his arms, the former tsarina by his side. Botkin was behind them, the girls clustered to his left.

Gleb _saw_ them all, technically, but his eyes focused only on Anastasia, her face tired-looking yet still prideful, holding her little dog.

Something strange and instinctive stirred inside him, leaving him with the oddest urge to force her to leave the dog behind. It wasn't simply that he didn't want to shoot the dog – if he could, if he _must_ , shoot a _girl_ , a dog was nothing more than an admittedly unpleasant addition to an already grim task; it was more that the dog, clutched to her chest like that, was going to block his intended perfect, near-painless shot at her heart.

Why did she insist on making things so _difficult_ for him?

But if he tore the dog from her arms, she'd create a scene. And if she created a scene and the guards reacted violently, knowing that their restraint no longer mattered – or very soon wouldn't, once the night was over – suspicions would be aroused. Yurovsky had made it clear that they were to keep the family as calm and natural as possible.

Keep them obedient, quiet, willing, following, at all costs.

Besides, Anastasia wasn't the only one who hadn't listened about not bringing anything – that second oldest sister of hers, the one that looked so much like their German mother, carried a large silken pillow. And all of them had little handbags on their persons.

Fighting back a grimace, Gleb cleared his throat. "Come with us."

Single file, the family and the doctor followed them through a number of small rooms and outside, into the – normally forbidden – fresh air. The girls took deep, ragged breaths, moaning with delight as if they were tasting the breeze of heaven itself. The chest of the former Tsarevich rose and fell more smoothly, but otherwise the boy – in stark contrast to his sisters – barely reacted at all. The doctor sneezed, nearly knocking the spectacles off his face in the process; he murmured something about allergies.

Back inside they slipped, into another part of the house, the one leading to the basement steps, of which there were exactly twenty-three.

The dog in Anastasia's arms started to growl at the guards. Doubtless, he was sensing their tension in a way his human owners could not.

Anastasia bowed her forehead, leaning it – as she walked – against his shaggy gray head. " _Shh_ , Pooka," she murmured into his fur. "They're just moving us until it's time to leave."

They made their way down those twenty-three stairs, then were shown into a bare room with only one window. There were two sets of doors; the ones through which they came in and another set, securely locked, behind where the guards gestured they should stand.

Yurovsky was waiting in there for them.

The tsarina wasted no time expressing her displeasure regarding the room as soon as she saw him. "Why are there no chairs? Aren't we allowed to sit?"

Gleb heard a guard chuckle, in a low voice that went unnoticed by the Romanovs, "The German Tsarina wants to die sitting down."

Nonetheless, Yurovsky nodded his consent and had the guards bring in chairs.

Despite the fact that there were eight persons, they returned with only two.

Without a word, the man they knew as Bloody Nicholas gently placed his son onto one and gallantly allowed his wife to take the other.

The second daughter slid the pillow she'd brought along behind her mother's back. "Here, Mama, this should be more comfortable."

The ex-tsarina reached back and patted the girl's hand. "Thank you, dear."

Gleb's stomach was starting to hurt. The look between mother and daughter had been tender, greatly softening their usually haughty faces.

He reminded himself it wasn't his job to worry about shooting _them_ – they were not his assigned target. Let whomever had gotten their names tied to their pistols fret over that, if they so took the notion. He was suddenly very grateful to Yurovsky for not allowing them to share the names of their targets with each other; he didn't _want_ to know which of his comrades had gotten their names.

"If you wouldn't mind all standing closer together?" Yurovsky said next, his voice raising at the end though it wasn't actually a question.

"What _for_?" blurted Anastasia, her dog growing more loudly in Yurovsky's direction now.

Yurovsky arched a brow at her. "We're going to take your picture."

"Why?" the oldest girl asked warily.

"Because rumors are being spread," Yurovsky replied calmly, not missing a beat, "that you have all escaped or come to some great harm – we would like to reassure the public that is not the case."

There was a little bit of murmuring between the older two girls in response to this. Gleb noticed the second girl shrug at something her elder sister whispered to her. Still, they did not seem too alarmed – just tired and unnerved, as _anyone_ woken in the middle of the night to face uncertainty would be.

Yurovksy began instructing them on precisely how they should position themselves, which they mostly obeyed, with two notable exceptions.

First, Nicholas – for some reason – refused to stand behind his son's chair and insisted on standing in front of him.

Gleb's throat felt like it was lined with glass. Could the former tsar _suspect_...?

Second, Anastasia refused to move as close to the others as Yurovsky wanted; she was stationed a little ways from the rest of her family and the doctor, nearer to the doors behind them.

This, Gleb assumed, was just her being her typical stubborn self and not cause for undue concern.

"My dog growls louder the closer I get to you," Anastasia said, glaring at Yurovsky as if it were entirely his fault. "I don't want him to panic and spring out of my arms."

Rolling his eyes, Yurovsky told her she might position herself as he'd instructed while he and his men left them for a few moments to check on some things.

With that, Gleb and the other guards followed Yurovsky out of the room, locking the doors behind them.

* * *

Dimitri was spending the night of July the seventeenth in the woods. He _could_ have risked trying to sneak back to the room he was renting (along with five other men who, mercifully, saw fit to ignore him most of the time), but over the last week or so a curfew had been placed over Yekaterinburg, probably something to do with the threat of the Whites, and breaking it was being taken more and more seriously with each passing day.

Someone was bound to rat on him if they saw him skulking to his room in the dark, when everyone else was already on lockdown. Lili, who he had found a room for in the same house he was staying in, would stand by him – perhaps even cover for him, if she could – but she had half a dozen roommates of her own. None of which felt any sentimental or protective inclinations towards Dimitri.

If anything, he thought some of the younger women in that house were offended and resentful of him because he had rejected their – in lieu of a more crass term – _romantic_ advancements on a number of occasions. Those women would probably _love_ to see him get in trouble.

He'd have better luck, he figured, sliding back in during the daylight hours when everybody was too busy racing to their various menial jobs to care what he was up to.

Besides, it wasn't horrible out here. It was unseasonably cold for July, but not bitterly so, and he had his greatcoat which still served its purpose, even if the lining was torn to shreds from his less than neat removal of the Romanov jewels.

The very Romanov jewels that were buried under the tree he was resting with his back against the trunk of.

His head lolled to his shoulder, his eyelids growing heavy.

And – for a short while, at least – on this night that would change his view on life forevermore, leaving him desolate and broken, he did – this one last time – sleep the sleep of an innocent man who has not yet come to know evil in its truest, ugliest forms.

* * *

"Comrade Vagonov, you look as if you're going to be sick." A guard elbowed him to get his attention. " _Gleb_? Hello in there!"

Gleb, fingering the handle of his pistol, had been far away, thinking only of what he must do, and alert only to the call of Yurovsky that would bring them all back into that cellar to do it.

Perhaps that was why his face had turned a bit gray.

"I hear you, comrade," he said dully, straining his eyes to stare at the contour of a single tall white lily, blooming just at the first fence-line of the shithole that constituted the yard of the Ipatiev House.

How had he never noticed before how hideously ugly this place was, and how beautiful that lone lily was in contrast?

As if in a daze, he stood – still mostly ignoring his comrade – and walked over to the lily, meaning to pull it up by the roots, to take it away after this night to someplace better. Someplace where he could take care of it and water it and watch it grow. No one would ever have to know where his beautiful potted lily came from.

But the harder he pulled, the more the lily resisted. Its roots were heavy as chains and it flatly refused to be parted from them.

In what he wished was fury, what would have been justified if it was only that, but was really cold and calculated, he broke the stem.

The lily could not live here, this was no place for it, and it would not be his, would not let him take it away.

It had left him with a painful choice, one he had had to make as he believed best.

The other guard, rather unsteady on his feet, came to him and pressed a bottle of vodka into his hand.

"It's really very simple, my friend," he assured him; "you merely point the gun."

Gleb brought the bottle to his lips and took a long swig.

* * *

They had been waiting in that basement room for half an hour, and Anastasia was getting fed up.

Readjusting her arm under Pooka – who was strangely rigid in her grasp, refusing to calm down no matter how many soothing words she spoke or how much she stroked his fur – to hold him more securely as she prepared to step forward, she declared, "I'm going to see what's taking them so long."

Alexandra nearly choked on her own saliva as she told her youngest daughter she would do no such thing. "You'll stay put with the rest of us."

Turning her head to smile sympathetically at her favorite sister, Maria said, "They've locked us in, anyway – it wouldn't do you any good."

"Alexei's nearly asleep again," Anastasia groused, motioning with her chin at his chair.

Alexei forced his eyes open wider. "I am _not_!"

Tatiana grasped Olga's hand and squeezed. " _Listen_! Do you hear that noise coming from outside?"

"Is it the White army?" Maria blurted, looking a bit starry-eyed at the delicious prospect.

"No, sweet girlie," Alexandra said dully. "It's not loud enough for that."

Olga squeezed back. "It's a _truck_ , I think."

"To take us away," Nicholas decided, nodding to himself. "It shouldn't be long now."

"See?" Maria said, addressing Anastasia again. "It's okay; they've only been getting things ready for us to leave."

"And I say the sooner the better," Tatiana declared, exhaling heavily. "I've hated this place from the minute we got here."

"Some parts of it weren't so bad," Maria defended it, rather magnanimously.

"What if we don't leave the way we expect?" Alexei's voice had grown a little faint.

"What do you mean by that, Alyosha?" Maria wanted to know.

He stretched arms up over his head. "I'm not sure – it's just one of those things that come to my mind sometimes."

Anastasia shifted from one foot to the other. "I still say they're taking too long – something's not right."

Just then, the doors swung open and the guards – led by Yurovsky – reentered, their gait slovenly, even outright drunken (they certainly _smelled_ of drink, if that counted for anything), and their faces blank, unreadable.

Pooka began growling again.


	32. July Seventeenth Part Two

_July Seventeenth: Part 2_

Pooka's heart was beating so fast against hers, his growls turning to whimpers.

"They're decent men," Anastasia whispered to her frightened dog, looking at Gleb in particular when she said this; "they won't harm us."

Yurovsky took a slip of paper from his beige greatcoat pocket as smoothly as a warrior from _Arabian Nights_ would have drawn his scimitar. "I have been given new orders."

Nicholas nodded uncertainly, politely waiting for more information.

"We are not leaving, then?" Alexandra asked, her eyebrows coming close together in confusion.

"You're not taking us anywhere?" added Botkin, equally confused, his face clouding over with anxiety.

Ignoring the doctor and the former tsarina, Yurovsky began a speech he had obviously rehearsed again and again to get it just right.

"In view of the fact that your relatives in Europe continue their assault on Soviet Russia, the presidium of the Ural Regional Soviet has sentenced you to be shot." Yurovsky dropped the paper, letting it flutter to the floor unceremoniously. "An execution that will be carried out immediately."

Nicholas' head swiveled back and forth, his gaze darting from his family to Yurovsky in horror. "What? _What_?"

They were the last words that ever died on Nicholas' lips, for the guards began firing on him at once.

Screaming, Tatiana threw herself into Olga's arms as their blood-soaked Papa crumpled to the floor.

Alexandra started the sign of Orthodox cross over herself, ready to give her soul over to God or – better still – be saved by him yet – but never completed it before she also was gone, same as her husband.

Anastasia discovered at the very moment her Mama left the world that she was holding not her lively, ever curious Pooka in her arms, but a dead dog with a gaping hole in its now blood-matted gray head.

This was because, in the heat of the moment, all the guards had fired at Nicholas, then Alexandra, save _one_.

That one was Gleb.

He alone had shot at Anastasia's chest despite the mounting confusion. He alone hadn't taken this chance to go after hated Bloody Nicholas.

His bullets hadn't hit her, but they'd killed Pooka instantly.

Too much in shock even to cry, to weep for her parents or beloved pet, she opened her arms and let the dog's corpse fall to the floor.

At that same moment, the ex-tsarevich fell off his chair from the brunt force of the bullets.

" _Alexei_!" Anastasia shrieked, the smoke from the fired guns filling the room and burning her eyes. "Hold on, Alyosha, I'm coming!" She cared for nothing, then, other than reaching her little brother.

Gleb was still firing, though he must have been doing a lot of guesswork, because she couldn't see really him anymore and it was doubtful he could see _her_ either.

All the same, several bullets reached her torso. Two _ping_ ed harmlessly enough off a fairly large diamond that had been sewn into that side of her corset, but three others hit against pearls, shattering them against her body, causing immense pain.

As she drew nearer to Alexei – or what she _hoped_ was nearer – it was no longer only Gleb's bullets she had to worry about. She was more or less straight in the line of fire now. She was hit in the arm, hot blood streaming down and soaking her coat sleeve. Another bullet hit the place she'd sewn her _Together In Paris_ necklace key into her corset; it glanced off, but not before pressing the sharp shape of the flower deep into her skin.

Suddenly she found she was on her knees, under the smoke.

" _Alexei_?" she choked out, crawling towards a body of about the right size.

"Ana..." he rasped, a blood-smeared hand reaching for hers.

"I'm here, Alyosha, I'm _here_ ," she gasped, falling face-flat on the floor beside him, linking hands as soon as they were within reach.

"Nyet! _Nyet_!" a voice on the other side of the room was shouting.

This was accompanied by a hollow pounding sound; the familiar screamer seemed to have reached the back doors and – hopelessly, vainly – wanted to get out by them.

 _Mashka!_ Anastasia felt her heart thudding all over again. In her frenzy to reach Alexei, she'd forgotten poor Maria somewhere back there.

I have to go back for her, she thought; _I've got to go back and_ help _her._

But Anastasia couldn't move. Everything hurt. Her arm felt like someone had doused it in gasoline and then cruelly set a match to it; the place on her torso where the pearls had broken in her corset felt like dozens of tiny shards of glass sticking into her. She couldn't even lift herself up onto her elbows or roll over again.

Besides, dead or alive – she didn't know which by this point, and it was a feeling beyond any distress she'd ever experienced – Alexei still held her hand and she could not bear to let it go.

Where were Olga and Tatiana? She had seen them embrace, but had seen neither of them fall in the smoke. They might already be... _dead_...just like their slaughtered parents, and maybe Alexei, too.

And what about Botkin? Was he...?

Maria had stopped screaming.

There was no more of that hollow pounding, either.

Did that mean...? Oh, God, _no_!

* * *

The guards had had to step out of the room. The stench of smoke and blood had become overpowering. Yurovsky was scolding the men for disobeying orders and shooting at Nicholas first instead of their assigned targets.

Gleb barely heard him. This scolding did not concern him, anyway. _He_ had followed orders – he had shot only at Anastasia Nicholaevna.

Questions and doubts flooded his mind.

He had not expected it to be quite like that. There had been so much blood, so much screaming. With all of Yurovsky's orders to keep the family calm, Gleb had somehow deluded himself into thinking they would quietly drop to the floor like expired flies and that would be the end of it.

Maybe it _would_ have been that way, if the others had been as obedient as he had.

Who knew?

It didn't matter now.

He still believed it was for the good of Russia, but deep inside his heart kept asking how something so ugly could be for the good of _anything._

He had seen a doctor, who had done no more in life than tend to a sick little boy, fall down dead, his spectacles shattering against his still-open eyes.

He had seen the meekest of the Romanov sisters pound on the doors, desperate for escape, only to get a bullet to the thigh. Surely the head would have been kinder! What had been the point of shooting her _there_?

The other two girls, they'd hugged so tightly when the firing started – the love between them had seemed, in that one instant, more real than any love of country he and his drunken comrades might claim they had.

If they were wrong about the nonexistence of God, Gleb felt uncomfortably certain that any higher deity worth a damn would readily take the part of those two entwined young women who met their death in that room over the soused monsters who killed them.

If he _had_ a soul, it was absolutely going to hell for this.

 _If_ he had one, it was flawed and hardened enough that it probably deserved it.

And what about Anastasia? The girl he was supposed to murder tonight. He'd seen her fall, heard her cries (mostly for her brother, rather than herself); but still.

She might not have...in all the confusion...all that smoke... She might be lying there with breath in her lungs yet.

He had _botched_ it. She might still be suffering.

" _Vagonov_! Didn't you _hear_ me?" Yurovsky snapped, calling him back to the moment at hand. "Time to finish what we started."

Gleb swallowed. "Yes, sir."

In as close to single-file as these wild men could make themselves walk, even with Yurovsky barking orders at every step they took, the guards – Gleb included – reentered the room.

The tsar and tsarina were dead, certainly, that had never been in doubt. The doctor, too.

But some of the children still stirred.

The second-youngest girl, by the doors, had fallen silent before they left, but they could hear panting coming from her now. A guard, probably the one who had gotten her name tied to his pistol, stabbed her with his bayonet, cursing wildly when it did not go through her the way it was supposed to.

"What's _wrong_ with these damn children?" the guard howled, stabbing at the girl's torso with even more frenzied movements. "Why don't they _die_?" Finally, getting fed up, he tossed the bayonet across the room and just pistol-whipped her.

With a weak gurgle, she fell silent again.

The second oldest, still clutching tight to her older sister, seemed to still be alive too. Rather than waste time bayoneting her, _her_ guard just dispatched her with a point-blank range shot to the temple. A thick spurt of the German princess' blood was splattered on his face when he looked over at Gleb with a raised eyebrow.

Thoughtless, Gleb had been standing there in shock, watching everybody else, rather than seeking out Anastasia's body in this blood-pool of a basement room and making sure he'd finished his own task.

Clenching his jaw until his eyes started watering (something he could, thankfully, blame on the smell if anyone thought to ask him about it), Gleb returned to himself and started searching the floor for her.

There she was, right next to her brother, holding his hand.

Squatting, Gleb pried their hands apart, getting no protest from either body. The boy was surely dead, considering his condition, and if Anastasia still had a pulse, Gleb couldn't feel it in her wrists.

"It is done," Gleb told Yurovsky, dropping Anastasia's hand. "They're dead."

"Bring the bodies to the truck," were Yurovsky's next words, harsh and impatient, made extra surly by the fact that things were hardly going smoothly thus far. "And, damn it all, _somebody_ get rags and a bucket in there to clean up – it's filthy, this room."

* * *

Anastasia woke to a screaming headache, made worse by some kind of continuous motion under her. She needed, very badly, to vomit.

She was lying, it would seem, on something sticky and growing cold. Her eyes opening a slit, just allowing her to see through the blurred frame of her drooping, matted eyelashes, she found she was on a pile of bodies.

It all came back to her. The shooting, the screams, the blood. Oh, _God_ , these were her family's bodies! She might be lying on top of Mama, or Tatiana, she wasn't sure. There was another body dropped over her like cargo, too. Somehow, she knew instinctively this one was Maria's.

They had put her in a pile of death, with her favorite sister's corpse right on top of her.

Everything still hurt. Even the shallow breathing she was risking now felt like it was zapping all the energy from her.

Alexei... Where was Alexei?

She tried to reach through a gap between bodies for a familiar-looking hand. It was a little, white hand, slightly smaller than those of any of her sisters' – it might very well be Alexei's.

Suddenly the truck hit a bump. A body – one of her sisters, or perhaps Botkin – made a thump on the side of the truck bed. It almost sounded as if one of them fell out, though none actually had.

Nonetheless, the driver stopped and two guards got out to inspect.

Anastasia let her hand drop. She couldn't let them see her move it – they'd only shoot her again.

To her utter amazement – then horror – the body on top of her own suddenly sat up and started screaming at the top of its lungs.

 _Definitely_ Maria. If Anastasia had had any doubt before – which she _hadn't_ , really – the scream would have convinced her.

For one glorious second, happiness all but consumed the former grand duchess.

Mashka was alive!

Mashka was _alive_!

Mashka was...

A shot to the neck from one of the two guards ended the screaming as quickly as it had begun.

Anastasia's blood ran colder. This was more than just loss, it was also her own fate, if they should discover her watching them from under her eyelashes.

Alyosha's, too, if he wasn't dead yet.

"We can't stop for every little thing, Kabanov!" the driver of the truck shouted. "If they're all accounted for, get back in here!"

Then came Yurovsky's voice, in firm agreement, also urging the guards to get a move on, telling them that – at this rate – they would never get the bodies disposed of before first light.

That's all they – the Romanovs – were to them, Anastasia thought brokenly. Just bodies. Nothing more than blobs of freshly-killed meat.

The truck sped up for bit, then promptly slowed down. It appeared to be getting stuck in the mud.

There was another bump.

This time, a body did fall. The one whose hand Anastasia had guessed to be Alexei's.

She had to get off this truck and reach him, hide her brother away from these monsters.

But before she could push Maria's lifeless body off her own, the guards – one of them Gleb this time (she recognized his voice) – exited the vehicle and ventured again to the back of the truck to get the wheel unstuck.

In the dark, they didn't see that Alexei had fallen – or, Anastasia desperately hoped, _thrown_ himself – off, but they'd have seen her try to follow him.

She had no choice but to keep on playing dead.

* * *

Dimitri woke to the sound of a truck approaching. Cursing, he scrambled to his feet and ducked behind the tree, watching carefully, squinting and screwing up his eyes in the dark to see who the driver was.

He made out the vague shape of the Bolshevik uniform, and that there was a pile of something on the back of the truck that didn't look or smell (the breeze was blowing the odor towards him) right.

His first thought brought him back to Tobolsk; the day they'd arrived there, fresh off the _Rus_. The dirty house, with the foul pipes and dead animal hanging in the pantry.

Anastasia's words to him: _It's horrible. All of it._

What was he even _seeing_?

His heart beat faster as the truck stopped, too much mud weighing down the back wheels and – just before the men got out to set it right – something falling off the bed.

They didn't seem to notice their loss as they bickered.

A voice Dimitri quickly identified as Gleb's made the hairs of the back of his neck stand up on end. If this really _was_ Gleb, then the man telling him and the other fellow with him what to do must be Yurovsky. And these men, _all_ of them, must be from the House of Special Purpose.

Whatever they had on the bed of the truck was from that house, too.

Which could mean...

 _Nyet!_ Even the vile Bolsheviks couldn't do something as horrible as what had just come into Dimitri's mind as he struggled to make sense of this scene.

They _couldn't_...

The thing that had fallen off the truck let out a guttural moan.

Dimitri's heart was in his throat now. He _knew_ that moan. How many nights growing up in the Catherine Palace had he stayed awake listening to a louder version of it while Alexei Romanov suffered through attacks brought on by blood pooling into his joints?

The truck – freed from the mud – started up again and disappeared into the trees.

He ran to the boy on the ground. "Alexei!"

" _Dima_." Alexei hadn't used that name for him in years, yet that was how he identified him now, in this weakened, near-death state.

"What _happened_?" The boy was covered in blood – some his own, from multiple wounds – other patches seeming to be splashes of somebody else's as they had no corresponding wounds of their own.

Alexei seemed unable to tell him.

 _Of course_ he was unable, Dimitri thought, chiding himself for his stupidity in thinking he would be able to get answers from him.

It was a miracle Alexei was alive _at all_ in this condition. It would be a miracle if someone _without_ hemophilia was alive in this condition!

Dimitri started to lift him up. "We've got to get you help."

"Nyet," cried Alexei, his faint voice barely a trickle. " _Nyet_. Leave me."

 _Leave_ him? Was he _mad_? Alexei must be delirious, must not understand how close to death he was. Dimitri shook his head. "You need a doctor."

" _Botkin_..." Alexei groaned.

"Yes, where's Botkin?" Dimitri urged, shaking him to keep him conscious. "Back at the house?"

"Botkin's...dead..."

Oh, _God_.

"We'll get you another doctor, then." It was hard to choke back his emotions at this heartbreaking news, but he did his best. If he was to shed tears for Botkin, they would have to come later, _after_ he rescued Alexei.

And once Alexei was well enough, he could tell Dimitri where the rest of the family was, what that demon Yurovsky had done with them.

"Leave me."

"No, Alexei, I'm _not_ leaving you."

"I die...I'm dying..."

"No, you'll be fine," Dimitri insisted stubbornly.

" _Ana_..." Alexei gasped out. "You promised. Promised if anything bad happened to me..."

"Nothing's going to ha–" he stopped. Wait, did Alexei mean...? "Where is she?"

"Truck...alive...hurt...they kill...they'll kill..."

"Anastasia was on that truck, too?"

"All of us."

Tears streamed down Dimitri's face in two dirty lines, snot simultaneously dripping from his nose. "No...there has to be...has to be some mistake...some accident..."

" _Breathing_..." Alexei croaked. "Ana's still breathing."

And here it was, an impossible choice. Leave Alexei to go save Anastasia, or let that truck, driven by Bolshie monsters, take her away to heaven only knew where, and find a way to keep Alexei alive.

He wanted to save her more than anything, but how could he abandon this child, this helpless fifteen year old boy he was bound to serve and protect? This boy that was like a brother to him?

If he ran after the truck now, could he live with himself, even if he _did_ manage to rescue Anastasia?

Besides, wouldn't she despise him for leaving her brother? Feel that her life had been saved at the cost of her best friend's?

"It's okay," Alexei whimpered, reaching over Dimitri's arm to touch the back of his hand. "It's okay. You can let me go."

Dimitri clutched the boy tighter. "I can't."

"I can go to Mama now," Alexei told him, his voice suddenly much clearer than it had been mere seconds before. "Now that I know you're here to save Ana, I can go. Mama'll need me more than Russia does – she always did."

" _Alexei_!" Dimitri shook the boy again, getting no response but a limp body.

Glazed eyes stared up at him, shining like two blue-flecked marbles in the dark, soulless as Baba Yaga's.

Alexei wasn't in there anymore.

Placing his hand flat over Alexei's eyes, Dimitri gently closed the lids over them.

Now it didn't look like an empty shell; now, he could be sleeping.

Kissing the forehead of the dead boy who should have been Tsar of all Russia, Dimitri hastily hid him behind the tree under which the Romanov family jewels were buried, and ran off to follow the tracks left by the fiat truck.

* * *

Anastasia did her best to squirm her screaming body closer and closer to the edge of the truck. She had to find Alexei, and did not wish to remain on board still alive only for the guards to stop again and put a bullet through her neck like they'd done to Maria.

She was weighed down by the scattered jewels in her corset and by her own lack of strength. Still, she pushed on, telling herself she would see Alexei just as soon as she got off the truck, that they would escape together and find Dimitri and Lili.

Yes, with Dimitri and Lili, they would be safe.

Dimitri would use their jewels to pay for a doctor to stop Alexei's bleeding and mend her own wounds. Then he would take them away from this awful place. Lili would nurse them, put cool compresses on their foreheads just like when they were very small.

As soon as they were better, they would tell everyone what Yurovsky had done – what a murder he was – he wouldn't get away with it...

One more roll. Just one more, and then...

A painful impact, the hard ground under her. The truck going on, hopefully none of the guards any the wiser that they were now two Romanovs shy of the full set.

Thinking only of Dimitri's face, Lili's gentle hands, and Alexei's moans, not allowing herself to focus on the pain flooding her body, Anastasia lifted herself up and started walking – _limping_ , more like – through the woods.


	33. July Seventeenth Part Three

_July Seventeenth: Part 3_

"Two. Bodies. Missing." Yurovsky spoke each word as if it were a complete sentence in itself. " _How_ was this allowed to happen?"

The guards had started pointing fingers and accusing one another immediately, none willing to take the fall for this gross oversight.

Except for Gleb – _he_ was a smart enough man to see where this was going from the start. He knew, even before the guards-turned-mob did, that he and whichever guard had gotten the Romanov boy's name tied to his pistol were going to be put on the spot. Their kills, their responsibilities. The two youngest Romanov children would need to be accounted for, or else _they_ – as reward for botching their tasks so spectacularly – would be next in line to face a firing squad.

"Medvedev, Vagonov," Yurovsky did not quite _spit_ , yet his tone still dangerous enough to give that impression all the same. "You do _not_ come back here without those bodies. Do you _understand_ me, comrades?"

"Yes, sir," answered Medvedev; "we swear it will be take care of."

"Good, now get out of my sight until you've found them." He waved them away.

In their duel haste to dash off after the missing pair of Romanov children, they did not notice the shining, horror-filled brown eyes watching them from behind a nearby bush, nor hear the breathing of the man hidden there.

Even when Medvedev was so close to the lurker he nearly trod on his hand, he took no notice.

Strangely enough, had the man been a Romanov, Medvedev probably would have smelled blood like a desperate hound and ended it for whichever unfortunate family member had taken refuge there.

* * *

Dimitri's thoughts did not dwell on the departing men for very long. No sooner were they out of range of the torches the other guards carried than Dimitri mostly forgot about them. Briefly, he did regret not hiding Alexei's body better, for fear they would bring it back here and do something horrible to it – like they were obviously planning to do with the ones they already had. But, beyond that, his mind did not rest with their troubles. He neither hoped they would be shot by an irate Yurovsky nor took pity enough to wish them an escape. They simply were not worthy of his notice, these vile men. He had not even put together that there were _two_ of them, that Yurovsky had sent them after _two_ bodies; not just Alexei's.

In truth, he had probably not even realized, until he thought it over much later, that one of the men in trouble for the missing bodies was Gleb.

Somewhere, this fact had lodged itself in the back of his brain but did not process. What did it matter, with Alexei dead? All that he cared about was finding Anastasia and getting her away from these bastards.

And, though he held out very little hope of any such thing, he maintained a secret wish that one of the other girls – particularly Olga – might still be alive. There was no chance for Nicholas and Alexandra – they would definitely be dead. But, if he could comfort Anastasia with one of her sisters, so she would know she was not completely alone, even without her beloved Alyosha...

Olga, he initially believed, would be an ideal comforter, being the eldest. Then he remembered, his stomach souring, how she had looked when he last caught a glimpse of her when he was playing the role of Alexander Tchaïkovsky. She had been so weak, so frail and badly aged by that place, that House of Special Purpose.

Even if she wasn't already dead, without Tatiana or her baby brother, Dimitri was quickly losing faith that she would have the _will_ to survive. She was strong in her own way, different from her youngest sister, but this might be asking too much of her.

He watched as the guards lifted the bodies off the truck. Squinting into their scattered torch lights, silently identifying – for his own peace of mind – the individual bodies of the family he had cared for so deeply. The family who had shown him, each member in the ways they personally knew how, the only true love he had ever known in his life.

First, Nicholas. His mutilated face was almost unrecognizable, especially in the dark, but his sheer size and blood-smeared beard were unmistakable.

Then, formerly beautiful but now equally mutilated and blood-caked Alexandra. There was no mistaking _her_ , either.

Doctor Botkin, in addition to a number of chest and torso bullet-wounds, had scratches from his broken spectacles all over his face – Dimitri knew him immediately as well, despite the grotesque damage.

Maria was next, after Botkin. If her eyes had been closed, she could have simply been sleeping like her baby brother in the woods. There was a gaping wound in her neck and blood on her skirt, yet her round, lovely face was bizarrely unmarred.

Dimitri clamped his hand over his mouth to keep from crying out with involuntary anguish.

For, at the very moment he saw her face and knew her, the memory of her throwing him a chocolate the day he joined the imperial family as Alexei's companion hit him so strong it was like he was simultaneously reliving it while watching the guards callously toss her dead corpse on the ground and return to the back of the truck for the next one. He could feel the silver foil against his fingertips as he unwrapped it, taste the chocolate, bitterly metallic as blood in this memory (rather than sweet as it had been in reality), melting in his mouth.

He couldn't take this. He needed to find Anastasia, steal her away, and get out of here.

Olga was next. Dimitri held his breath.

No, she was dead, too. She was less riddled with holes than the other corpses seemed to be so far. He wondered if that meant, whatever they'd done to them in that house, she'd died quickly – maybe even been the first of the five children to leave this cruel world that was never meant for a princess as wonderful as her.

He exhaled, as quietly as possible.

Tatiana had an obvious head wound, located at her temple. No hope for her, either. She was long gone. All Dimitri had left of her was a wrinkled scrap of paper stashed away back at the room he rented with the word _Blue_ etched out on it in her perfect handwriting.

He waited for the last body, for Anastasia's, praying Alexei had not been mistaken about her still breathing, only for the guards not to return to the truck.

Instead, they began stripping the clothing off the bodies they'd already taken out. Without any consideration or respect, they ripped cloth off willy-nilly, tearing into the girls' corsets, yanking out fistfuls of gleaming jewels and broken pearls.

Treasures they would have kept, perhaps even draped over the necks and placed on the fingers of their own children and wives and mothers and aunts without a second thought to the butchery of the previous owners, if Yurovsky hadn't ordered them not to keep a single thing for themselves or else risk being shot.

Dimitri felt beyond sick. He was seeing the naked, dead body of the woman who was once the Tsarina. Her husband and daughters, too. The guards didn't care what they exposed, or touched, and it was painful to watch.

He wanted to look away but was too afraid he would miss them bringing out Anastasia if he did.

One of the guards pointed to the exposed privates of Nicholas and laughed – _laughed_ , as if it were the funniest thing in the world.

Just when Dimitri thought this scene which would haunt him until the end of his days couldn't get any worse, they began dousing the naked bodies in acid.

"More," Yurovsky ordered, as calmly as if he was asking for more tomato slices on a sandwich. "No one must ever be able to identify them."

Dimitri began to suspect then that Anastasia wasn't there. That he had been suffering, waiting through this endless nightmare, for nothing. He wondered if it would even be worth it to sneak through this danger zone to check the back of the truck to make sure.

That was finally when the number two struck him, like a rock in a snowball to the head.

 _Two_ guards out there, combing the woods.

One for Alexei, one for...

Oh, _Christ!_

* * *

Gleb and Medvedev – comrades in name but little else now that it came down to the nitty-gritty, each out to save their own skins – went their own way in the dense woods before very long.

Not a single word passed between them in parting; not so much as 'good luck'.

It never occurred to Gleb to wonder what would become of himself – if he would run away or else submit to his deserved fate – if he failed to find Anastasia. He simply kept looking, and would have stayed on the hunt until the morning light if need be. It was an animal instinct: a predator does not contemplate death if he fails to find his prey, he simply seeks until it's found or he drops down dead from exhaustion.

When it began to seem impossible, as if the injured girl had vanished like a dream on the wind of the summer night, or – hopefully – died in some hollow he had yet to stumble upon with his torch, he suddenly caught sight of a shock of red hair vanishing into a thicket.

She was out here, still alive thanks to his botched job in that accursed cellar, and now he must finish it.

He must finish it for the good of Russia.

* * *

Anastasia no longer cared what became of her. Not after what she had just stumbled upon, dashing all her hopes.

Combing the woods even more desperately than Medvedev for Alexei, she had all but tripped over his corpse under a tree.

At first, she judged him to be asleep, lying there with his eyes closed, looking so peaceful.

Then terror had gripped her heart.

Why would he sleep, stop here to rest, unless he was...

Sleep wouldn't bring healing for him in this state.

It could only mean...

Gasping and shaking his shoulders, she croaked, "Alyosha, please wake up, we have to go." They had to get out of these woods, away from the Bolsheviks, to the town – to Dimitri and Lili. That was their last hope.

There was, of course, no response. The boy's spirit had long since fled the body Dimitri placed so gently under that tree.

On her knees, Anastasia let go of her dead brother and pressed her hand to her heart. Everything hurt so badly now. There was no hiding from her own injures and pain, with this hope – this purpose, to protect her brother, her best friend – _gone_. She whimpered and shrieked as loudly as her near-breathless lungs would allow. Who cared if they found her, if they ended it now. They should have ended it in that cellar with the others.

Without at least one of them, she did not think she could find the strength to go on.

"Alyosha," she moaned. "Why _him_ , of all?" Why a sweet boy who she loved – and who had loved her – so much? Why a little hemophiliac child who had only lived, it seemed, to suffer until his brutal death at so young an age.

Only _fifteen_.

Alexei would never live to seventeen and outgrow, if Rasputin hadn't been a complete quack in predicting it, his disease – he would have never lived free of the bleeding curse.

She tugged at her hair and buried her face in her dead brother's chest, sobbing.

In death, he even _smelled_ like blood and gunsmoke, not at all like himself in life. Not of little-boy sweat and dirt and the strong soap Mama always made him use to mask it.

Finally, though she couldn't imagine how it was possible, Anastasia's tears ran out and she found herself stumbling, little more than a humped-over crawl now, through various thickets.

She was no longer sure what she was looking for. It wasn't Dimitri or Lili – she didn't believe, anymore, that she would live long enough to find them, that she would ever get out of these woods. But still. Still, she could not remain with her dead brother's body; something was pushing her forward, away from the site of his expiration.

A pair of boots caked with equal parts mud and blood appeared in her line of vision.

She goggled at them, slowly lifting her head to find the person wearing them staring down at her, bitterly resolute.

" _Gleb_ ," she hissed.

He cocked his pistol.

" _Finish_ it," she taunted, welcoming any consequence this goading might bring. "Then I will be with my parents and my brother and sisters in that cellar again." Then, she could die and join them. She could be safely enfolded in her Papa's waiting arms within seconds if Gleb shot true this time.

"I'm sorry, Comrade Romanova," he managed through his teeth. "It was never personal."

"Of course it was," she rasped, her blue eyes burning. "It was always personal – for both of us."

"Your family was given everything, and gave back nothing." His finger slid onto the trigger. "If we hadn't risen up and destroyed them..." He shook his head, swallowing hard, visibly fighting tears. "Damn it, you stupid girl! Why didn't you let me save you when I _could_?"

"I was never yours to save," she whispered brokenly. "Only to kill."

"I _must_ do this," he insisted, just as brokenly.

"Then _do_ it. What are you waiting for?" Her chin trembled. "I hope you see all their faces in mine, witness their terror again – it's only a fraction of what I've suffered tonight, the _least_ you deserve for playing your part."

To her utter shock, he lowered his pistol. "I can't... Not twice in one night."

"I mean you no harm, Gleb," she told him, rising to her feet as he sank to his knees, reversing their roles.

"Listen to me, comrade." He lifted his hand and pointed, panting heavily. "The road into town is that way – if you make it out of these woods, without being found by Medvedev, and get treatment for your wounds somehow, you win your life."

Breaking into fresh sobs, tears streaming down her face, she admitted, "I don't _want_ it – not anymore."

"If not," he went on, as if she hadn't spoken, "you die here and my task completes itself without my firing the final shot."

"Gleb, _please_..."

"Even now," he mused, trying to make sense of it, "part of me wants to take you from here – get you to that town, see you alive." He pressed his pistol to his temple. "I cannot live with myself if I actively betray my cause – everything I still believe in – that way."

"Gleb, don't!"

"Long life, comrade." With that, he pulled the trigger.

* * *

" _Lili_." Dimitri shook her awake.

Despite the fact that it was well into the morning and all her roommates had gone off to work hours before, Lili had still been deep in slumber and did not welcome being woken by the former Tsarevich's favorite servant.

She tried to shoo him off, muttering incoherently.

"Lili," he said again – this time, it was obvious that he was crying. "Something's happened."

* * *

When he finished his account, Lili, her hands pressed together as if in prayer for the murdered imperial family, had only one question.

" _All_ of them?"

The pain from that question was too great. Dimitri wanted to say no, that Anastasia might still be alive. A lone survivor of that senseless slaughter. Except, the improbability stacked against that agonizing hope was rising all too fast.

He had searched those woods all night – dared even to call out her name several times in his hoarse, frightened voice, risking his own fatal detection – and never found a trace of her.

Worse still, he had heard a shot fired in the darkness.

Just one.

A final shot for the final living child of Tsar Nicholas the second.

Exhaling, letting go of everything he loved and believed in – everything he wanted to keep believing in, even then – in that one breath, he sighed, " _All_ of them."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be a time jump, so this concludes this portion of the story.


	34. The Sunbeam on the Neva

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The Irina Alexandrovna character introduced in this chapter isn't particularly meant to be based on the real-life Anastasia's cousin in this fic – she's a common Russian OC who just happens to have the same name.

_The Sunbeam on the Neva_

_Nine Years Later..._

The twelfth of August was a tough day for him – _all_ of their birthdays were. And, in nearly a decade, Dimitri never forgot one.

His typical method of dealing with the feelings this day gave him was to slink away from the hostel he helped run near the banks of the Neva River, alluding those fellow workers who might have called themselves his friends and been more surprised than they ought upon discovering he felt almost nothing whatever towards them, and take a walk through the streets and gutters of Petersburg (his subconscious mind still didn't think of it as _Leningrad_ ).

In truth, he actually _preferred_ the dark, black-market underbelly of the rotting city to the fake, polished facade the Bolsheviks had turned the rest of Petersburg into. But keeping up his own facade – the one of being a good and loyal, red-loving comrade – meant spending less time there and more putting up a respectable front.

Alexei would have been a man of twenty-five today.

His sisters, Dimitri knew, would have still called him Baby, regardless of this. They would have followed their mother's lead and called him Baby when he was _fifty_ , let alone a mere _twenty-five_.

The boy had been only a month away from his sixteenth birthday when he was murdered along with the rest of his family.

On each of their birthdays, it was impossible not to wonder what they would be like today – alive and laughing, their imprisonment long behind them.

They would never have been allowed to be private citizens in Russia, but they might have thrived in some other country, if only their relatives hadn't been so selfish during the war and refused to take them in. Dimitri often pictured Olga and Tatiana working in some Parisian bookshop, or Alexei having lunch with his parents by some English channel, watching the steamers pass their picnic on the shore. Maria, he always pictured married to some bemused aristocratic gentleman who adored her but never did understand why this former Russian princess wanted to have twenty children with _him_ , how on earth he had ever gotten so fortunate.

Botkin would have had no shortage of jobs in whatever country the Romanovs landed him in; everybody needed doctors. Dimitri pictured the man happily setting up a flat and sending for his family from Russia as quickly as possible. Botkin's children and grandchildren would play in that flat, innocent and pure, unaware of the ugliness embedding itself deep into the country they'd left behind.

It was Anastasia's future Dimitri had the hardest time dreaming up. He knew what she would have wanted, or so he hoped – him. _Them_. Together.

Somehow, though, he couldn't picture it.

Would Nicholas have eventually supported their relationship, or would he have been furious that it was taking place under his nose for so long? Would those flimsy vows they said to each other in Tobolsk have held up? Would they have married for real, the way they planned? Would they have had children? What would their names have been?

 _Ridiculous._ He still would have been considered an inappropriate match for a former tsar's daughter. Princesses didn't marry former kitchen boys.

To avoid causing a scandal, she would probably have gotten engaged to that damned prince of Wales against her will. If they'd wanted to be together, she would in all likelihood have had to run away from her family; something he knew she'd never have done.

This subject became so painful, after a few headache-inducing moments of pondering it, that he had to push it from his mind or risk going completely insane.

Because, not only was she gone, but he had never had closure in losing her. He had seen the bodies of the others, a sight that haunted and sickened him, but it was a sense of finality all the same. With Anastasia, all he'd had was her absence in the woods he searched and that single, booming gunshot that might as well have pierced his own heart that night.

If that weren't bad enough, a rumor had been flying around Saint Petersburg like wildfire that she was still alive, hidden away somewhere; that her grandmama in Paris was offering a large reward – of ten million rubles – to anyone who could bring her home safely.

He wondered what the Dowager Empress would say if he arrived at her door claiming to be her favorite granddaughter's widower – in spirit, if not legally.

Not that he would ever do that; inflict such senseless pain on that old woman, or tarnish Anastasia's memory with stories of a torrid affair between her and a servant.

It had only been – if all their fine feelings and intentions were removed from the equation, leaving the barest of facts – one foolish night in Tobolsk shared by a pair of childhood sweethearts of grossly unequal rankings.

Still, the temptation to make a spectacle of himself – trod callously over the feelings of anyone who stood in his way, tainting every memory of the Romanovs in the process – just to get out of Russia, to start again someplace else with a blank slate, _did_ grip him once in a while.

At such times, he had to remind himself to be a better man than that. Which wasn't always easy. It was hard to even _want_ to be good when you'd seen so many bad things in your life.

Sighing, he stopped to rest by a souvenir table. The old, gap-toothed crone who ran it was selling snow-globes with a depiction of Anastasia Romanov as a child of eight inside.

The age she'd been when he first met her.

He was debating buying one (despite knowing all too well the nature of these shady sellers), today being one of the few days a year he allowed himself to be sentimentally indulgent, when a regiment of Bolshevik soldiers came storming down the alleyway.

Cursing, Dimitri ducked behind a rubbish bin, watching as the lady's customers immediately made themselves scarce.

Arresting the lady, who spat at them and shrieked in a wordless high pitch that would have turned an opera singer's face green with envy, the soldiers overturned the tables, scattering the snow-globes onto the hard ground.

Several of them smashed upon impact; those that hadn't were confiscated.

All but one, which rolled unnoticed to land at Dimitri's feet. He picked it up and stuffed it under his greatcoat.

A worker's clock in the square donged ten times, reminding Dimitri that he'd better get back to the hostel before his absence became too apparent.

He wasn't particularly worried that Irina, left in charge, would run the place into the ground on her own – she was business-like, save for her nasty habit of chewing tobacco in front of both the passing guests and long-time lodgers – but her idiotic friends, who liked to lounge around the hostel lobby every afternoon, gossiping and spreading endless rumors, were another matter entirely.

Picking up the pace, breaking from a fast-walk into a full run, Dimitri barely slowed when he bumped shoulders with a young woman speaking to an older man with a mustache, probably asking for directions of some kind.

" _Excuse_ me!" she snapped as his shoulder made contact.

Still moving briskly, he did whip his head back around briefly to take in who he'd bumped.

He noticed she was on the short, scrawny side with long red hair. Without wondering, without even _considering_ the potential resemblance, he shrugged and kept going.

After nine years of disappointments, Dimitri had long gotten over his tendency to accost anyone who looked like that in the streets just in case it was Anastasia.

Only three years ago, Irina had gotten drunk and told all her friends that he had 'a fetish' for girls with blue eyes and red hair, how he would always stop whatever he was doing to stare at any female with those features.

But that was in the past.

Dimitri Viktorovich no longer believed in fairy-tales.

* * *

The woman who called herself Anya was having a rough day. Not only was it the birthday of someone she had loved dearly – whose loss, even near a decade later, she never truly got over – but she'd gotten lost in an unsavory alley and been rudely bumped in the shoulder by some oaf who hadn't been watching where he was going.

This shoulder was still aching as she approached the hostel a rather grumpy-toned but surprisingly patient gentleman had given her directions to.

She knew it, now that she saw it.

Prior to the Bolshevik takeover, it had been a palace. When she was a little girl, this palace had been home to a count; he'd had a large theater and adjoining ballroom, and thrown a number of grand parties featuring hired players there.

Everyone had been so beautifully dressed and polite. She had been ecstatic to be permitted to go, since usually only the big pair was allowed by their mother to attend society events. But perhaps because of the play – because Papa had _promised_ she could see one that season, and even Alexei was invited to this one – she and Maria had been brought along, too. They'd had to wear short dresses, not fashionable long skirts, but she hadn't minded – it made sneaking around and looking at everything easier if she didn't constantly have to stop and hike up her dress.

There had been bubbling champagne, served to the older guests. Dimitri dared her to steal a sip – and she'd done it, just to show him.

 _Count_ _Ipolitov_.

Yes, that was the name of the count who'd lived there. Ipolitov. Nice man, very smart and wonderfully kind. Even Mama had been fond of him.

He was probably dead – murdered during the revolution, too, most likely.

Now most of his beautiful palace was a poorly-tended administrative building for the new government, while one large wing overlooking the river was a crowded hostel bearing the name – according to a freshly painted sign – _The Sunbeam_.

No matter. She wouldn't be here long – she had a plan to make sure of that.

What was it her little brother had said to reassure her, back in the House of Special Purpose?

_We can endure anything if it's only for a little while._

It had proven true in his case – he'd made it to the bitter end. And after nine long years of hoping for another way out, it was almost a relief to think all she needed to do was follow him now and her endurance, too, could finally come to an end.

* * *

"You _reek_ ," Irina commented as Dimitri strolled past the poorly-constructed reception desk she was stationed behind. "What did you do, spend the morning in a pile of horse manure?"

"Good morning, Irina – it's nice to see you, too." His voice was dripping with sarcasm. Hardly surprising. The more time they spent with each other, the less he seemed able to address her without using that particular tone.

"I want to talk to you." Her eyes darted back and forth to make sure no one was close enough to overhear.

"Well, I'm on my way upstairs to take a bath," he simpered, pulling his mouth a fake pout. "You know how I _hate_ for my foul odor to have to offend you any longer than necessary."

"You can do that in a minute," she told him, folding her arms across her chest; "I have a proposition for you first."

He sighed dramatically. "If this is anything like the _last_ hair-brained–"

"Shut up and _listen_ ," Irina cut him off, lowering her voice. "I've been thinking about the Princess Anastasia."

Dimitri bristled involuntarily. Irina could hardly have gotten under his skin more if she'd run nails over a chalkboard proceeding that sentence. He had the most overwhelming urge to slap her. If she'd been a man, he probably _would_ have backhanded her for it.

She _knew_ he hated talking about the imperial family. Recently, he'd even put a sign in the window forbidding guests from talking about the Romanovs under his roof on pain of being thrown out. This had – by some stroke of luck – endeared him to the Bolsheviks, but it would have done just the opposite if they'd know the _real_ reason he hated to hear gossip concerning the royals.

Heedless of this, however, Irina pressed on. "That grandmother in Paris is going to dole out an insane amount money to the first sap who convinces her he's found her granddaughter."

"It's _her_ money." Dimitri shrugged, shifting the stolen snow-globe from under his coat into his pocket without Irina seeing. It was a move he'd long ago perfected, since his partner was a greedy vulture who wanted to keep everything he brought home. "She can do what she likes with it – that's no concern of ours."

"Oh, but it _could_ be!" Her eyes were fairly glittering at the thought. "You could bring me to her! _I_ could be Anastasia; I'm the right age, and I have red hair."

"I know the old woman's eyesight is rumored to be failing," Dimitri snorted, indignant, "but I think she'll still notice you're four inches taller than her granddaughter and have hazel eyes."

"How is it you know exactly how tall the grand duchess was?"

"I make it my business to know." He blinked and started walking towards the stairs again. When he reached the bottom step, he laughed, "Christ, I can just _see_ it – you, of all people, in front of the dowager empress." Pressing his hand to his heart and draping himself over the banister, he pitched his voice in an awkward impression of Irina's nasal timbre. "Grandmama, it's me: _Anastasia_!"

She uncrossed her arms and planted her hands on her hips. "Well, I _never_! I don't see _you_ coming up with any brilliant ideas for getting us out of Russia."

"Oh, and – for the record, Irina – the _real_ Anastasia didn't chew tobacco," he snapped. "She smoked, like a lady."

It wasn't until he reached his room and slammed the door behind himself that Dimitri realized how violently his hands were shaking.

His bedroom was a shrine to the Bolsheviks' property-free, simple ideal of life. He had a bed and a matching dresser with a plain, eye-level wooden cabinet seated on top, a small nightstand with a cheap porcelain water pitcher he forgot to refill half the time, two threadbare rugs, and precious little else.

Precious little else that was _visible_ , anyway.

Behind the cabinet doors was his real shrine – his real _self_.

The shelves were hung with dozens of religious icons. He pretended to be an atheist in public, yet secretly remained devout in the same Orthodox faith the Romanovs had followed until their death.

The middle shelf, between the icons, held several candles and the small collection of things he had to remember the imperial family by. Anastasia's music box (he would have starved before he sold or traded it), the torn and crumpled scrap of paper Tatiana had written _Blue_ on, a picture of Romanovs from 1910 he'd peeled from a discarded postcard he found in an alley dustbin, and – the latest addition, which he placed beside the others now – the snow-globe with eight-year-old Anastasia's likeness inside.

Taking one of the candles down, he struck a match and lit the wick. He lit a candle every time one of them had a birthday, this August twelfth no exception.

"Rest with the saints, Alexei Romanov," he whispered, pressing his index, middle finger, and thumb together and lifting them to his forehead. "Happy birthday."

* * *

"I'd like a room, please," Anya said, setting her heavy satchel down on the flimsy-looking desk.

With bright red hair and twinkling hazel eyes, the woman standing behind it was rather pretty – or would have been, if she took it easier on the rouge and chewed whatever was in her mouth a little slower and less like a cow working its cud.

"I'm afraid, dear," she said, not unkindly, still chewing as she spoke, "we only have beds available, no private rooms."

It was not ideal. Anya wanted to be left alone to prepare for what she planned to do. Still, it was better than nothing, and she'd walked all this way and was so tired she thought she might faint if she had to leave here to search for a place where she'd have more privacy.

"I'll take a bed, then," she agreed.

"You have money?" the girl asked, not rudely but with a healthy amount of skepticism in her voice.

"Yes, I've saved a little." Anya stood a little straighter, reaching into her pocket for a couple of rubles, which she placed beside her bag.

The lady nodded. "What's your name?"

"Anya," she said, swallowing.

"Surname?"

She hesitated.

"I need something to put down on the register, dearie," she told her. "The government does check up on these things."

"Anya Vagonov."

She had borrowed that name in a number of other places, and only been called out on it once.

That time, a soldier had been nearby and had excitedly asked if she was related to Gleb Vagonov. She'd claimed to be Gleb's younger sister, remaining unharassed and well-treated that night as a result, and then quietly moved on before her lie could be found out.

It hadn't been as hard as it ought to have, pretending to be Gleb's grieving sister. When they asked if she missed and loved him, she had just pictured Alexei's face in place of his, started to cry, and murmured, "Oh, very, _very_ much. Every single day."

"I'm Irina Alexandrovna," the woman introduced herself.

"I was curious about the name of this place," Anya said next, pointing to the doors. "On the sign. Why do you call it _The Sunbeam_?"

Irina sighed, smiling indulgently, as if at a hapless child's antics. "Oh, my husband came up with that – too saccharine for _my_ taste. But damn me if he didn't insist on it."

Just a coincidence, after all, Anya decided; nothing to do with her dead brother.

"We serve tea at three o'clock, a simple brew with black bread," Irina told her next. "You can go up the stairs behind me to the Ladies' dormitory on the left at your leisure. Enjoy your stay."

"Thank you." Anya reached to pick up her satchel, but Irina got it first and handed it to her.

"Phew, that's heavy," Irina commented cheerily. "What you got in there, rocks?"

Why lie? Anya gave her a withering, blithe smile. "Yes, _several_."

* * *

Anya had trouble finding the Ladies' dormitory, despite Irina's directions. She walked into what seemed to be a sort of converted bathing-room first by mistake.

It looked as if it had been an entertaining parlour in the olden days, but the towels hanging, the collection of plain soaps, and jugs of steaming water heating over the fireplace gave away its current purpose.

A man's shadow moved behind a curtain draped over a space in front of a metal washtub, only a couple feet from where she stood – tired, dazed, and completely dumbfounded.

She might have stood there longer still, the steam in the room coloring her cheeks bright scarlet, her exhausted mind not comprehending that she hadn't yet reached her destination, if she hadn't been startled back into coherence by the man – presumably naked – rising from the tub.

Embarrassed that she had walked in on some stranger in the middle of his bath, she turned and fled the room, darting back into the corridor.

* * *

Throwing on his clothing without fastening any of the buttons, Dimitri emerged from behind the curtain, his hair still wet. "Who's there? What are you doing in here?"

There was no answer, and the room behind the curtain appeared empty now, but he could have sworn he heard somebody walk in.

It had happened plenty of times before – lost guests, one of Irina's friends spying on him, a visiting Bolshie with no respect for privacy, it wasn't exactly an unusual occurrence – but something about this time, on this day, felt strange.

He couldn't put his finger on why he felt that way, though. Why he wanted to know exactly who it was this time.

Shrugging off the goosebumps gathering on his arms, he got on with his day.

* * *

A curious, goggle-eyed woman who called herself Clara Mikhailovna, sitting on the bed across from Anya's, kept staring at her, asking endless questions. Mostly about how 'painful familiar' she thought Anya looked, and hadn't they met sometime before?

"We must have done – I never forget a face," she claimed, with a curt nod at her own statement. "I've seen your face before."

At first, Anya had tried to answer the nosy woman's questions, albeit morosely, insisting they did not know each other and she simply had a collection of very common features.

Eventually, though, when this didn't placate the insufferable woman in the least, she stopped responding and focused more intently on the task in her hands.

"Don't see why you're sewing those rocks into that corset," Clara commented.

"That's _my_ concern," Anya told her testily, reaching into her satchel for another rock before re-threading her needle.

"Never said it _wasn't_ , lovey," Clara said, yawning and rolling over onto her belly. "Never said nothing like that. Only, I think it's going to be awful heavy once you've finished – you won't be able to wear it comfortably."

"I'm _used_ to being uncomfortable," was Anya's only response. "I can endure it a little longer."


	35. The Lady in the River

_The Lady in the River_

That Clara woman had been right about one thing. The rock-filled corset certainly _was_ uncomfortable. It chafed at old scars and felt like a weight against her chest. Soon it would be over, though. Soon she would be with her family again and the weight, one that had been on her heart long before she slipped on the overloaded corset, would finally be lifted.

She considered writing a note, leaving it on her bed, but then decided against it.

Who would care that a scrappy nobody named Anya had died? Who would care if she put down that her father's name was Nicholas and she'd like to be buried under _Nicholaevna_ rather than _Unknown_ , if they pleased?

Besides, what right did she have to ask for a proper burial? No one else in her family had gotten one. Poor Alexei's body was doubtlessly found by the guards in those woods and burned or else put with the rest of them to rot someplace.

Better if no one knew to look for her, if nobody found her at all, if her worthless, exhausted body was food for the fishes.

Once her soul was free to rejoin the others, what became of this cast-off shell wouldn't matter anymore.

The sun hung low in the morning sky as she crept towards the bank of the Neva. She could see the remains of so many former pleasure palaces. She could even see one, only partially obstructed, side of The Winter Palace. One of the homes that had belonged to her family so long ago. She and Maria had rather hated that palace – their shared room there was drafty and nowhere near as snug and familiar as the one in the Catherine Palace, their _true_ home.

Still, it was comforting to see it now, even as a public building. She could just imagine Olga looking out one of the windows, a novel in hand. Or – a memory from when she was barely six years old – Tatiana taking Alexei's beloved spaniel, Joy (the one who got rabies and Papa had to shoot), for a walk on the grounds.

Anya took a deep breath, bidding farewell to the world she no longer liked and had resolved not to remain in, and jumped into the river.

* * *

Dimitri was sitting up in bed, looking at the snow-globe with young Anastasia's likeness inside. It was a cheap trinket, of course, but the crudely crafted similarity was still enough to bring back memories from their shared childhood.

Some days these memories were too painful to linger on, such as the day before, which had been Alexei's birthday, but every now and again he would wake up with the desire to wallow in the past.

A desire he usually squashed like a bug. A person close to the edge of a building didn't allow themselves to sway in the breeze with abandon, for fear they'd fall.

Today, for some reason, he'd been unable to resist. He tempted the feeling of hopeless loss, of letting himself go to pieces, with the sweet lure of momentary pleasure in old thoughts recalled.

He was so lost in the memory of being a little boy in a shared time-out with the youngest grand duchess, he could practically hear Nicholas roaring, _I want quiet out there! Not_ one _word for the next half hour,_ both _of you!_

Sighing, he shook the globe lightly, watching the snow fall around her.

A knock on his door jolted him, almost making him drop it. Hiding the forbidden object under the covers so he could sneak it back into the cabinet later, he grunted and stumbled to the door, unlatching it and glaring at Irina, who stood there wringing her hands.

"I've told you not to disturb me while I'm in here," he reminded her, impatient to have Irina out of the threshold leading into his personal space.

"Dimitri, it's an emergency."

He noticed, then, how pale she was, and forced his expression into a kinder one. "All right, what _is_ it?" This had better be _good_. Not like the _last_ emergency, which had mostly to do with two drunk men who smelled of excrement and piss, claiming their underwear was frozen from standing in a factory all week, panhandling in the lobby.

"One of our guests may be trying to...to _harm_...themselves." Irina's voice trembled, on the verge of hysterics.

This wasn't as uncommon as it should have been. The Bolsheviks may have told them times were better, but the rising number of attempted suicides and self-mutilations – even in just this one Saint Petersburg hostel alone – would say they were most certainly _not_.

"She's so _young_ , Dimitri!" Irina blurted, her knuckles going white. " _My_ age, perhaps."

He motioned with a roll of his hand for her to hurry up and get to the point.

"She came in here yesterday, wanted a room, agreed to take a bed when I told her it was impossible," Irina explained, her voice speeding up. "The other guest – in the bed near hers – says she saw her sewing rocks into her corset. She didn't show for tea – I just assumed she was tired; I mean, the poor thing looked like she'd walked halfway across Russia – only now she's been spotted wandering along the river...probably looking for a good place to...to..."

" _Christ_!" Dimitri dashed back into the room without bothering to close the door, giving nosy Irina the in she usually could only yearn for to snoop around. "You're just telling me this _now_?" With all the time Irina took babbling out her story, the young lady might already be dead. " _Damn it_ , Irina! You're completely _useless_ sometimes, you know that?" He threw on his boots without lacing them, stomping his feet to the floor to get his heels all the way in so they didn't fall off, then jumped up and pushed past her. "Next time, just _tell_ me a woman is drowning herself and move out of the way."

* * *

It might have been impossible for Dimitri to find the woman in time, if he hadn't – by a stroke of luck – made it to the river just as she vanished into its waters.

He caught sight of her back, of a flash of fair, gold-flecked red hair in the low morning sunlight, and nothing else – but it was enough to give him a general idea of where he needed to dive in after her.

Because he hadn't taken the time to remove his shoes, he lost one boot in the process, finally spotting the woman in the murky current and grabbing onto her waist to heave her back up.

 _There_ , of course, was the rub.

She was heavy as hell. Probably from those rocks Irina claimed the guest who'd ratted on the suicide attempt had seen this woman sew into her corset.

Her limps stiff and useless, neither fighting him off nor helping him rescue her, Dimitri found himself being dragged down _with_ this madwoman.

It occurred to him, eventually, at least in the back of his mind, that he might need to let her sink and save himself – that this whole endeavor might be hopeless.

Except, something in his body rejected this knowledge – this possible, if tragic, eventuality – entirely.

From the moment he grabbed onto her, his body didn't react as if he'd snagged a stranger in his arms. Instead, it clung to this woman as if she were the dearest being in the world to him and letting her go would kill him as surely as sinking permanently to the bottom of the Neva would.

Twice, he told his arms they'd tried their best, to just give up and let her go. Twice, he waited for his self-preservation to kick in. Twice, it did no such thing.

It didn't matter that they were a hostel, not a charity. That it was not their _job_ , technically, to rescue these loonies who wanted to end it all. That no one would hold him personally responsible for failing to save her.

No, all that mattered was fighting, kicking his legs, until he got himself and this unknown woman to the safety of the bank again.

Mercifully, all he needed to do was get the woman's head above water and there was a rush of other people – a mix of guests and locals – on the bank ready to help pull her out. He knew Irina must have been the one to bring them all down here, and felt momentarily sorry he'd called her useless. He also knew he'd probably never apologize to her for it – they rarely ever apologized to each other.

"Oh, dear! Someone take her arms." He saw Irina pointing above him through the murky ripples. "He can't hold her much longer! Somebody do _something_!"

In the end, two burly men with wide, inexpressive faces and greasy-looking hair helped Dimitri lift the woman out and place her gently on the ground.

"Is she breathing?" Irina gasped, her hands clasped together and positioned over her heart. "Oh, what on earth could have _possessed_ her?"

Irina's words seemed muffled, as if he were still underwater. Dimitri was transfixed on the woman, now that he saw her properly. The resemblance, which his mind refused to accept and his body refused to ignore, was _uncanny_.

For well over five years, a good half-decade, he'd secretly followed every claimant he heard of swearing to be Anastasia Romanov – he'd seen smuggled pictures of girls from all over the country – and not _one_ of them looked as much like the grand duchess as this woman they'd just pulled from the Neva.

She was the same age, the same physical type...

He wondered what color her eyes were.

Shaking himself out of the ridiculous notion that it just might be _her_ , he lowered his head to her chest to listen for a heartbeat. It was hard to hear through the rock-filled corset, so he ended up feeling for a pulse in her wrist instead.

It was there, though a little weak.

He felt annoyed, highly aware this was probably self-inflicted. She wasn't fighting to survive, because she hadn't _wanted_ to.

That was, after all, why she'd tried to kill herself.

Still, he put his hand behind her neck, propping her up, and slapped at her cheeks until she vomited out a mouthful of water.

Even so, she did not open her eyes or respond to their presence, aside from a low, disappointed moan.

But at least she was breathing now.

* * *

"What is the _matter_ with you?" Irina whined at Dimitri, who had immediately plopped himself into a chair at the bedside of their unconscious guest, not taking his eyes off the mysterious woman since the moment they'd gotten her out that horrid corset and into a decent nightie. "Can't you make yourself useful and fetch something for her? Maybe a glass of water, or a bit of cheese?"

"She's going to _eat cheese_ in her _sleep_?" he snorted, not dignifying what Irina sincerely believed was a legitimate complaint with even the smallest of critical glances. "Besides, this isn't a soup kitchen."

Irina turned away, muttering, and started dunking a small towel in a basin of tepid water to make a cool compress.

When she looked back at Dimitri again, she was utterly shocked; he was leaning over the woman to unfasten the string that held her nightie closed.

Rushing over and slapping his hand away, she snapped, " _Pervert_!"

" _Irina_ ," he growled. "Get out."

She scowled at him. "Yeah, I'm really going to leave after what I just saw you doing."

Sucking his teeth, Dimitri stood up and moved his chair further from the woman's bed. "I'm all the way over here – I'm not going to touch her. Now get out."

"Why _should_ I?"

"Because I asked you to."

"You're not the boss of me, Dimitri."

"Oh, yeah? Wanna bet?" He turned his head, looking at her finally, a nasty twinkle – one she hated seeing, since it never boded well for her – in his eye. "One letter to your father, Irina, just _one_ letter..."

"You _wouldn't_! You'd be ruined _with_ me!" she protested, terrified of his threat all the same.

"Are you convinced I care enough about that to risk upsetting me?"

Tears filled Irina's widened hazel eyes. "You're a real son of a bitch, you know that?"

He motioned with his chin. "There's the door – go cry about it _outside_."

* * *

Dimitri knew he was too harsh on Irina. She might have been a dimwit and a whiner whose snippy little voice grated on him more often than not, but he secretly felt a little – albeit, a _very_ little – bad whenever he pulled the 'letter to her father' threat out of his arsenal.

The fact of the matter was he simply didn't _want_ her in here with him – with _them_ – now.

There was too much he was trying to sort out. He hadn't been – as Irina had thought – trying to look at the unknown woman's breasts or feel her up. What he'd been trying to see, more than a little afraid to, was if she had any scars where Anastasia would have. Any healed wounds from Bolshevik bullets. He had readied himself to find only smooth, unmarred flesh so that he could calm his body down, reassure his racing heart this was not _her_.

He hadn't had a chance to look when Irina undressed the woman and threw away that deadly corset. Irina had proven surprisingly (given what Irina was when he first met her, and the fact that her friends still loved walking in on him in various states of undress whenever they could) prudish in regards to preserving this young woman's modesty.

Even though Irina had fled the room in tears – which was all his unkind threat was meant make her do, really – he still couldn't risk checking.

Irina had frustratingly sharp ears, and he suspected she hadn't fled very far. If she heard him get up, or move the chair closer, she'd be right back in here, demanding to know what he was up to.

It wasn't like he could tell her the truth. She didn't know that he'd served the royal family, apart from a vague knowledge that he'd once been a kitchen boy at the Catherine Palace and didn't like talking about them now. Besides, she was such a blabber-mouth that, come teatime, all her friends would know he was in love with a dead princess.

Worse, Irina might _play_ at being sweet when it suited her, or when she wanted to come across as a victim, or when she felt Dimitri was wronging her in some way or other, but he knew she could be vindictive.

In fairness, he probably _deserved_ to be the object of her revenge, but that didn't mean he was about to metaphorically hand her a sharpened bread-knife, expose his rib-cage, and give her leave to stab at him.

If she knew about his prior connections to the late imperial family, he shuddered to think how she would counter the – comparatively minor – threats he had so often used on her.

So all he could do was sit and watch the unknown woman sleep.

He decided that if Irina _did_ weasel her way back in here within the next hour or so, and their suicidal guest was still not awake, he might ask her to bring him the registry.

He wanted to know what name she'd given when she paid for her stay at _The Sunbeam_.

* * *

Anya woke to the scent of lilies.

Was this what heaven smelled of? _Lilies_?

For a horrible moment, back at the river, she'd thought someone had rescued her, preventing her from joining her family.

Her eyes opened and focused on a single white lily in a glass vase. She began to smile, still convinced – for the moment – that she had indeed made it to the other side and her spirit was about to be clasped in her Mama's loving embrace, that she would hear Maria and Alexei's voices any second.

Then it became horribly clear, and she wanted to weep.

She had not died. She was not in the afterlife, smelling haunted lilies off the graves of the dead, but in an ordinary room lying on an ordinary bed looking at a live snowy-colored lily put out on a nightstand for decoration.

"No," she moaned. " _Nyet_..."

A nearby voice said, very matter-of-fact, "You're awake."

"Why didn't you let me die?" she sobbed into the pillow under her. "I was supposed to _die_. I'm tired of being here – I can't anymore, I _can't_!"

"I could throw you back, if you want," said the voice, not seriously but not exactly _kindly_ , either.

"Why are you so unkind?"

" _I'm_ unkind? I nearly killed myself, saving you." There was a slight chortle of disbelief in his tone. "What were you running from? Why did you–"

"I was running _to_ someone," she croaked out, not letting the speaker finish the borderline insulting question. "My family. They were killed in the revolution. I wanted to be with them again."

" _Jesus_. I've rescued a crazy person."

"I'm _not_ crazy."

She blinked, her tears slowing as she rolled over to face the speaker. She _knew_ that voice – her skin was prickling with fear and delight as she recognized it. It _couldn't_ be! Not after all this time, not after she'd given up hope of ever finding him.

Sitting in a chair a foot or so away from her bed, looking almost precisely how she remembered him from years ago, was Dimitri.

"It's _you_ ," Anya gasped, stretching her hand out for him, wishing his chair were closer so she could make contact. "Oh, God, I can't believe it."

He stared at her skeptically, the obvious lack of warmth in his brown eyes far from what she expected. "Have we met?"

" _Dimitri_!" she snapped, about to scold him for not recognizing her, hardly convinced she could have changed enough in nine years that _he_ wouldn't know her, when the door behind him swung open and Irina – the woman she'd met yesterday when she paid for a bed – came in.

"Oh, so you've finally returned to us, have you?" She was carrying a bowl of broth on a tarnished tray. "You gave us quite a fright, you know."

"I..." Anya's throat closed.

Irina pointed at Dimitri, clearly misunderstanding why their guest had cried out his name a moment ago. "Don't let him worry you, dearie, he just gets a little handsy with red-haired girls." She studied Anya's face for a moment, then sighed heavily. "Uh-oh, and _blue eyes_ to boot! How unfortunate. You'd best let me know if he bothers you, sweetheart." She sighed again. "I'll make sure he leaves you alone."

"Irina?" Dimitri said the woman's name in a slow tone Anya knew meant he was rapidly losing his patience. Even Alexei had tended not to put too much pressure on him when he used that tone, as it usually meant he was on the verge of completely losing it. His eye was, unmistakably, _twitching_.

"Yes?"

" _Shut up_."

Irina did shut up, but Anya didn't like the testy way Dimitri and this woman were looking at each other – as if they shared a number of darkly unpleasant secrets between them.

Dimitri rose from his chair, and Anya – catching sight of his right hand – felt her chest tighten, constricting painfully, as the world in front of her eyes seemed to fill up with tiny dark spots.

He was wearing a wedding ring.


	36. Teatime

_Teatime_

Dimitri winced when he noticed Irina setting out the good china for tea. " _Tell_ me you're doing that because you feel bad for our mentally unstable guest."

Looking up as she set a gleaming brass fork on top of a linen placemat, Irina shook her head. "Afraid not – three guesses who telephoned and announced they'd be joining us."

Groaning, he lifted his hand to his face. "Such bad timing."

"It won't be so bad," Irina sighed, breathing on a spoon then rubbing it with her less-than-clean handkerchief to shine it – an action the former kitchen boy that still lived in Dimitri's marrow found utterly repulsive. "We've done it before."

"And yet, without fail, part of me _dies_ just a little every time," he simpered.

"Oh, don't be so dramatic, Dimitri."

"Oh, _right_ , a group of high-ranking Bolshevik officers who have the authority to shut us down and throw us in prison if we displease them in any way will be here for tea. And, to top _that_ off, we've got a madwoman upstairs we fished out of the Neva this morning." He forced a sardonic shrug. "Why on earth should it bother me?"

"Well, I'm glad you brought up our little half-drowned waterlily upstairs," Irina said next, smoothing her skirt and stepping away from the table. "She'll need to be moved."

"We can't put her back in the Ladies' dormitory," Dimitri said flatly. "She's too unstable."

"I realize that," Irina conceded, "but the room we've put her in has always been reserved for the Bolshevik officers. If they don't get it, they'll be furious."

"Then where are we going to put her?"

The madwoman's resemblance to Anastasia made him uncomfortable – all the more so the way she'd acted like she _knew_ him before looking at his right hand and randomly exploding into a fit of weeping that could have drowned out a parade – but he last thing he wanted to was kick her out before he discovered who she actually _was_.

He hadn't even had a chance to check the registry for her name yet.

"I was thinking...and _don't_ have a conniption fit, it really doesn't flatter you... _your_ room."

" _My_ room?" he repeated, dumbfounded.

"Yes, it's not like you'll use it during the officers' visit."

"Why wouldn't I be using my own room?"

"Dimitri, you know they expect us to be sharing one." Irina frowned, plainly put-out by his lack of cooperation. "You're going to move into my room with me until they've gone."

"And we're back to the _dying just a little_ ," he told her.

"So, can Miss Unknown use your bedroom or not?"

"Fine," he gave in, throwing up his hands in surrender. "By the way, why are you calling her _Miss Unknown_? What name did she register?"

"Erm, _Anya_ something or other," Irina said, popping a fresh chew in her mouth and chomping down. "Starts with a P, or maybe it was a _V_." Her forehead crinkled and her upper lip curled with the effort of using her brain to recall something that didn't involve tobacco, room decor, or make-up. "It's in the registry – check it if you want to know."

Thinking Irina couldn't have stated the obvious any more plainly if she'd been offered a set of semaphore flags as visual aid, Dimitri left the dining room and went to rickety desk to leaf through the register.

_Anya Vagonov._

Vagonov... Where had he heard that name before?

A memory exploded in his mind, a blur of colors and white light.

He was hunched over with a broken, bloodied nose.

Commissar's voice: _I think it best if Comrade Vagonov escorts them in your place._

Gleb.

Comrade _Gleb_ Vagonov.

Closing the registry, Dimitri reached up to rub his temples. What he had hoped would allow him to glean at least _some_ small answer had only left him all the more confused.

* * *

Anya felt a hand on her arm, shaking her, and rolled onto her back without opening her eyes, the bed creaking loudly under her. "What do you _want_ , Dimitri?"

"How did you know it was me?"

Her shoulders lifted in a weary shrug as she slowly opened her eyes, gazing up at him blankly.

"Where's Irina?" She could not bring herself to say 'your wife'.

"Getting clean linens for the bed."

She grabbed a fistful of sheets in one hand and clenched her fist around it. "These are fine."

"They're not for _you_."

"Oh?"

"We have a superior Bolshevik officer coming to tea," he told her. "He requested this room."

"I can't imagine why," she murmured.

"You don't _like_ it?" He arched a brow.

"I just thought Count Ipolitov had much grander rooms in this wing than _this_ ," she remarked, as if in a daze. "I remember velvet curtains sewn with silver thread, the last time I was here. There was gold on the ceilings. The main ballroom alone..." Her voice trailed off. "I tried to smuggle my brownie camera in, to take pictures of the play and the dancers – Mama took it away, of course."

"How did you know Count Ipolitov? Were you an aristocrat?"

Tears filled her eyes, blurring his face, protecting her from his unmoved expression though not from his disinterested tone. "Who do you think I am, Dimitri?"

"I don't know," he replied dismissively.

* * *

"I think it's best if _you_ do most of the talking," Irina was saying, while Dimitri only half-listened, still thinking about Anya.

For some reason, he hadn't told her that the new room he'd given her was his own. He wasn't entirely sure _why_. Maybe he didn't want a crazy lady knowing where he slept most nights.

Or maybe he was becoming afraid of her in a way that was altogether unrelated to how mentally unhinged she obviously was.

Every time this _Anya_ looked at him, he felt like his insides were being wrung; it was hard to breathe, let alone think straight. Taking his eyes off her was as difficult as if they were glued in her direction. And yet he was all too aware of how ridiculous he was being; how she couldn't possibly be the person he saw looking out through those beautiful blue eyes – _Romanov_ eyes, he'd have called them, if he didn't know better.

Her knowing his name without being introduced to him was a little creepy, but he believed there had to be an explanation. She'd guessed, or heard someone else say it.

Dimitri had been fooled once before, and it nearly destroyed him; he didn't think he could bear it if he let himself be tricked again.

"As you know," Irina still prattled on, like she expected him to _care_ , "I'm not really much of an actress."

 _No kidding._ He rolled his eyes and lit a cigarette, only to stub it out a moment later when the Bolshie party arrived at the desk, their grim, no-nonsense faces melting into smiles more befitting French gargoyles when they saw Irina.

These men were convinced that pretty Irina Alexandrovna was the living embodiment of everything pure and good about the New Russia. A dutiful woman with a steady, respectable job, an open hand, and – as far as they were currently informed – a loyalist husband.

" _Show_ time," Dimitri muttered under his breath.

* * *

Anya hadn't intended to come down for tea. Especially knowing there would be Bolsheviks there. She stayed clear of that sort as much as she could – an effort that proved increasingly difficult in the new order of things.

But, after a while, she couldn't stand being in that room alone anymore. Even crying no longer held any release for her – she was completely drained of tears.

She could find no sharp objects – nor _any_ objects, really – in the drawers. The pitcher on the nightstand didn't even have any water inside.

The only things of interest she could find in the entire room were a collection of icons stashed away in a cabinet. She found the music box Grandmama had given her when she was eight hidden behind a large four-wicked candle and removed it.

After all, it wasn't Dimitri's to keep. Besides, if he'd cared about the music box – about its connection to _her_ – he wouldn't have left it in a random storage cabinet.

She thought perhaps, despite the fact that she had little appetite, she might slip downstairs and at least have a drink of water.

Though her corset was gone, discarded, Irina had washed and returned the rest of her clothing – a worn skirt, plain blouse, and a woolen coat.

After stowing her reclaimed music box in the coat's pocket, Anya put the blouse and skirt on, trying to ignore how naked she felt without any proper underthings.

In the dining room, she was greeted with a sight that tore her heart out.

Dimitri sat at the head of a long table spread with a hearty teatime fare – black bread, fresh fish, a couple kinds of fruit and creamy milk, and hot water from a spotlessly shined samovar – Irina (looking very striking in a pale blue dress trimmed with white lace at the collar and cuffs) at his right side. They were holding hands above the table and smiling at something the Bolshevik officer seated closest to them was saying.

"I'll never forget," Dimitri began, after the Bolshevik officer had finished speaking, "the day I met the most beautiful woman in all of Russia."

One of the more elderly guests went " _Aww_..."

Anya desperately wished Irina would choke on a fish bone, uncharitable as that thought was. At the very least, she wanted to see the woman Dimitri had just declared the most beautiful in all Russia spit up her tea.

"What was that nickname you always liked calling me when we first met?" Irina chimed in.

Dimitri's brow crinkled, the fingers on his free hand curled around a quarter-filled wineglass. "I'm sure I can't wait to hear."

" _Reenie_ ," she said, her voice rising jubilantly as if she'd had some sort of delightful epiphany. "That was it."

"If you say so, darling," he managed, not-so-smoothly trying to steer the conversation back to what it had been a moment earlier. "Anyhow, I was in a bad way – I'd lost my last ruble to a con someone I'd believed to be a friend pulled on me – and then...Reenie..." He nodded in Irina's direction. "Irina... She saved me."

Taking a gulp of wine, Irina cut in again. "I couldn't believe anyone would want to con such a handsome face. I mean, with looks like that, _he_ should have been doing the scamming – am I right?"

"Irina, _stop_." He squeezed her hand – a little too hard, Anya thought, growing more baffled and hurt with each passing second.

"Is it true," the officer four seats down from the closest Bolshevik asked, "that you went to Moscow to ask her father's blessing and refused to spend the night under the same roof as your bride until you'd gotten it?"

Dimitri smirked. "Now where did you hear _that_ , comrade?"

Irina giggled madly, as if at some private joke between herself and her husband.

Anya wanted to vomit. She'd seated herself, so as not to draw attention, at the lowest seat at the table – by a stroke of poor luck right across from a frantically waving Clara Mikhailovna – and been presented with her own teacup and wine glass, as well as offered a plate of fish and bread; but she couldn't bring herself to touch a crumb of it.

This man who was proudly flaunting his lovely wife in front of the Bolsheviks had once pledged himself to her in Tolobsk and, in return, she had given herself to him. She had gone to his bed and been one with him. He was so in love with her back then he'd called her _dusha_.

Later, reappearing in her life as Alexander Tchaïkovsky, he had promised to find her again if she left the House of Special Purpose.

He never had.

And now he seemed to want to impress the very people that killed her family and tore them apart forever.

Anya's mind understood that it had been a long time, that she should be glad he'd found someone else to fill his lonely days and stave off the empty suffering, but her heart was indignant.

He wasn't supposed to love Irina (she wasn't even sure he _did_ , whatever he told the Bolsheviks); he was supposed to love _her_ – Anastasia Nicholaevna Romanova – his childhood sweetheart turned lover.

After all, _she_ had never found someone else. She never _wanted_ to – still didn't. Seeing him now, even wanting to strangle him for saving her life only so he could go and break her heart into a thousand useless pieces, she knew beyond doubt there was nobody else. She had never stopped being in love with him. Nine years didn't weigh much of anything in the balance of her feelings.

Worse than his being with someone else was his total nonrecognition.

He acted as if she were a crazy stranger, a wandering lunatic.

All she wanted now was his recognition and one last loving embrace. It really didn't seem like too much to ask for, in the grand scheme of things. Given all she'd lost and suffered through.

Indeed, it felt like that much was rightfully hers.

* * *

Dimitri longed for the evening to be over. What started out as a slightly more extravagant tea than usual had spread into a boisterous gathering in the lobby by the fireplace, lasting agonizing hour after agonizing hour. The last time he'd wanted to bash his own head in with a rock this badly, just for the sweet relief of unconsciousness, had involved Irina's best friend Daria (an extremely unpleasant woman who called him 'Dimmy' and had a bizarre compulsion to make quacking noises and flap her arms whenever someone uttered the word _tomato_ ) and an act she performed using a sock puppet.

Spending time with the Bolsheviks, pretending to be enamored of Irina Alexandrovna, was a close second on the torture scale. The only thing that didn't make it _worse_ was that at least none of the Bolsheviks tried to convince him a sock with buttons sewn on for eyes was capable of human emotion. Or make him apologize to the aforementioned sock for allegedly hurting its feelings.

For men whose ideals supposedly centered on simplicity and lack of personal property, they sure insisted on being entertained and getting the best of everything whenever they came to _The Sunbeam_.

Making him even more cranky was the fact that Irina kept pinching him every time his eyes strayed to that Anya Vagonov woman.

He did _try_ not to look at her when she arrived and sat herself down at the far end of the table. He doubted she even noticed his occasional glances. The Bolsheviks certainly hadn't.

Irina, on the other hand, had noticed unfailingly each time his eyes strayed in that direction, and starting pinching him back to attention accordingly.

Dimitri risked one sharp kick in her direction under the table to try and make her quit, but ended up bumping the heel of a Bolshevik's boot by mistake and had to give it up.

His right thigh under the table was beginning to feel rather sore (Irina had sharp fingernails, which dug in as she pinched him) and he was a little disappointed – and surprised – when Anya didn't go back to her (well, _his_ ) room after tea, staying with the rest of the guests to watch the Bolshevik officers lounge around, smoking and talking about nothing of any importance.

One of the officers began a revolutionary song (somebody had dragged in a piano, from Dimitri had no idea _where_ , as he didn't _own_ one, to accompany him). It was one of the songs Dimitri hated most – about the dead tsar's cold body rotting and his damned soul drinking booze in hell. Still, he and Irina had no choice but to join in. The last man who'd been close to their group when this happened and hadn't sung along was suspected of being a White sympathizer for over a year. And they had only stopped investigating the poor fellow once he was able to bring medical proof that he was, in fact, a _mute_ to the nearest government office.

At least Irina was having fun. She loved singing, no matter what the song was about. Dimitri grudgingly had to admit she was rather _good_ at it, too. The nasal voice which made her speaking so unbearably grating was strangely melodious whenever she sang.

During the song, Dimitri noticed Anya growing more and more visibly upset. Her jaw was clenched, unshed tears filling her eyes, and she had her arms wrapped around herself in a protective hug.

A cigarette she had bummed off one of the other guests was now untouched, smoldering in the closest ashtray.

He had the overwhelming urge to rush over and apologize to her, perhaps try and explain, before he remembered she _wasn't_ Anastasia and he didn't owe her anything.

He didn't have to justify himself to this woman.

After the song, and a round of cheering, the Bolsheviks decided it would be a good time for a photograph of everyone.

Dimitri, Irina, and a selection of the nicer-looking (as in less poor and recently bathed) guests were hustled towards the piano, where the head officer tried to position them just right so that they'd all fit in the frame.

"Dimitri and Irina by the bench, yes," the man was saying, pointing, "and that man and woman there behind them...that would look about right..."

Rather too loudly, Irina whispered, " _Why_ are we doing this again?"

She might have been addressing the question to Dimitri, but it was the officer positioning everyone who answered. "A few upstarts have been complaining that the new order has produced nothing but misery – a picture of a merry, loyal party such as yourselves will counter that and reassure the public."

Before the camera could be produced and the photograph taken, however, Anya started screaming at the top of her lungs.

" _No_!" she shouted, leaping up from the thinly upholstered chair she'd been sitting in, shaking like a leaf; "they'll _kill_ us...they've got guns pointed at us...they're going to kill us all!"

Every eye in the room fell on the raving woman, convulsing and weeping.

"The little dog in my arms was growling," she sobbed, crumpling to the floor and burying her face in her hands. "Oh, _Pooka_..."

Irina came forward and touched the officer's arm. "I'm sorry, our guest has been unwell – she took ill after a dunk in the river this morning."

Dimitri went over and crouched in front of the madwoman. "No one is pointing guns at you."

Her breathing regulated itself, her mind appearing to return to the present.

"I should have died when they shot me," she whimpered, her chest heaving as she peered at him through her fingers. "This keeps happening – I keep seeing it _everywhere_."

"I think we'd better get the poor thing back to her bed," Irina declared, trying her best to defuse the situation. "She'll feel better after a nice lie-down in her quiet room."

"I want," the officer said slowly, "that woman's _name_."

"Certainly, certainly," Irina patronized him, "but first you want a freshly opened bottle of vodka, to help forget this little hiccup, _yeah_?"

"Your wife is absolutely charming, Dimitri," the officer told him, melting under Irina's warm gaze and open, generous hand. "I hope you realize how lucky you are."

"Oh, I have _no idea_ what I did to deserve her in my life," he managed, forcing a tight smile.

* * *

"I don't know," snapped Irina, buttoning up the high collar of her nightdress as Dimitri turned down the bed, "why you always _insist_ I sleep dressed like a nun when you share a room with me."

"A respectable nightdress is hardly a habit," Dimitri sighed, smoothing the covers then wandering back over to the nightstand to splash water on his face.

"It's a habit I'd like to avoid getting into," she retorted.

He stopped, turning to look over at her in utter shock, his face still dripping. "My _God_ , Irina, I think that's the first joke you've ever made in my presence."

"Would you have liked me better if I'd been funny?"

He shrugged, reaching for a towel to dry his face. "Perhaps."

Irina sat on the bed cross-legged and pulled the covers over her lap. "Wish I'd known that when we first met."

"Oh, don't act like you _like_ me, Irina," he snorted. "You've said it yourself – you're not much of an actress."

"Well, you're not the thespian you think you are, either." She leaned back and picked an imaginary piece of lint off her pillow. "I saw the way you looked at our unknown waterlily downstairs."

"She just reminds me of somebody I used to know," he said, trying to play it cool. "That's all."

"Somebody you used to _love_ , you mean," Irina corrected him. "I _can_ tell the difference, you know."

"That's really none of your business." He pulled off his boots and slipped into his side of the bed, turning his back to her.

They were silent for a few minutes, until Dimitri suddenly started laughing hysterically, shaking the mattress.

"What's so funny?" she yawned.

" _Reenie_? What the hell was _that_?"

"Well," she defended herself, " _Dasha_ calls us Reenie and Dimmy sometimes."

"Dasha talks to a _sock_ ," he pointed out. "And it answers her."

"Well, my best friend's an idiot, _whatever_." She yawned again. "Goodnight, Dimmy."

"Night, Reenie."

He was still laughing when she fell asleep. Or so Irina thought. She never heard the moment his laughter turned to tears and muffled sobs, never noticed the difference as he began to cry himself to sleep.

* * *

Meanwhile, Anya couldn't sleep. Not after what happened downstairs. When she'd flipped out, she'd noticed a small change in Dimitri's expression. He no longer looked at her like she was a stranger, or a loon.

At least not entirely.

There had been the smallest twinge of doubt in his eyes. More than that, of _fear_. Like he'd seen a ghost fly out of her mouth.

She wondered what she would do now.

She wanted to leave this ghastly place – this former palace – and never come back, but not before he recognized her.

If she wasn't going to kill herself after all, wasn't going to join her dead family, maybe he could help her get out of the country, help her find her way to her living grandmother in Paris.

If nine years hadn't stopped – or even slowed – the outbursts, the freakish episodes where she relived that night in Yekaterinburg again and again, then probably nothing would.

This was the first time she'd had one of her meltdowns in front of government officers.

If it happened in their presence again, and they began to suspect who she really was, she didn't even want to _think_ about what they'd do to her. She knew firsthand how merciless they were.

So that settled it; she had to stay until he believed she was Anastasia Romanov and agreed to help her.

Then she would try to never think of him – of his betrayal – ever again.


	37. Drastic Changes In Rooming Arrangements

_Drastic Changes in Rooming Arrangements_

_Seven Years Earlier..._

"Dimitri, you do know that bowl of rice isn't _going_ anywhere, right?" Irina asked, watching him stuff his face with a look of clear disapproval on hers.

They were sitting at a cafe table, across from each other. He thought she was being rather hypocritical, considering _he_ had to endure her endless chomping on chewing tobacco. Not to mention the way brown spittle sometimes came out the corners of her mouth.

"I haven't eaten in almost three days," he reminded her, reaching for the salt shaker.

She shrugged and studied her long, painted fingernails as if she'd just noticed their existence on her hand for the first time. "You did seem out of sorts this morning."

"That's one way of putting it," he grudgingly agreed.

"You're _welcome_ , by the way," she snapped, lowering her hand into her lap and glaring across the table at him.

"I _said_ I'll pay you back for the food," he grumbled, shaking the salt over the rice.

"So what did you think of my proposition?" she urged, propping her elbows on the table and resting her chin on her hands eagerly.

He smacked his lips. " _Marvelous_."

"You're for it, then?" Her muddy hazel eyes shone with hope.

Dimitri snorted, placed down the shaker, and cocked his head at her. "I was talking about the _rice_ – it's very good here – your proposition, on the other hand, is _stupid_."

"Why's it stupid?" Irina pouted and immediately started whining. "Oh, come on! Please, Dimitri, _please_?"

"Irina, I'm not going to scam some old man just because you're too embarrassed to tell him you're..." Dimitri made a rolling motion in the air with his hand, trying to come up with a nicer way of putting it. "A lady of pleasure." Yeah, that would work. It was _bullshit_ , sure, but slightly nicer for public usage nonetheless.

"He's not some old man, he's my _father_ ," Irina snapped, reaching over and yanking his bowl of rice away in an attempt to regain his full attention – which, really, she'd hardly had to begin with. "Trust me, he deserves it."

"I find the whole idea utterly repulsive," Dimitri said flat-out. "What about that are you failing to _get_?"

"Dimitri..." Irina bit her lower lip, trying to hold back tears. "I'm...in a delicate state right now..."

His eyes widened. "Oh, _no_." He started to stand up, snatching his tattered greatcoat with the shredded lining – the one he refused to get rid of, no matter how shabby it looked – off the back of his chair. "No, no, no. _Thank you_ for the rice, but I've really got to be going."

Wiping at her eyes with the back of her wrist, Irina growled, "Go on then, you'll only starve on the streets of Petersburg again. Or be conned by another letter you're convinced some long-lost childhood sweetheart wrote. And see if I care when you do."

Cursing under his breath, he sat back down, hoping his outburst hadn't drawn _too_ much attention. " _Listen_ , the day I take up with the likes of you is the day I have no other options."

"You've got no money, no place to live, and you're starving," she simpered impatiently; "the other options ship has flown."

"Sailed."

" _What_?"

"You said flown...ships don't fly... Birds fly. You meant _sailed_ , I think." He rolled his eyes at her continued stony incomprehension. "Never mind."

"Listen, all I'm saying is, do this, _help_ me," Irina pressed, jackknifing over and grabbing his hand, squeezing it rather too hard, "and we'll both want for nothing.

"Forget cheap rice and whatever it is you've been eating out of the garbage – you can dine on black bread and vatrushka every night! There's all these old palaces around, and people need beds – with my father's money, we can open a hostel. We'll be successful business people."

"When you say _hostel_ , that's not a euphemism, right?" Dimitri felt the need to double-check, pointing his fork at her. "Because I think I've made my feelings on that clear."

"No, of _course_ not!" She seemed insulted he had even suggested such a thing.

"With _you_ , Irina, that's really not a bad guess."

"Fair enough." She traced a dirty cup-ring on the table with her pinky. "So..."

Thinking only that he must be completely out of his mind, or perhaps suffering from a kind of delirium brought on by hunger pains, Dimitri huffed, "Yes, I'll _do_ it." He then shot his arm out across the table and snagged the rice bowl. "Now give me back the damn rice."

Irina looked delighted, her face positively melting. She sank back in her chair, utterly content. "Oh, I knew you'd see reason! Everything is going to be all right. And you're so _handsome_ – my father is going to _love_ you!" Her expression grew starry. "Who wouldn't trust that _face_?" An aside, muttered out the corner of her mouth: "Once we get that thuggish beard you've started growing shaved off it, I mean."

Dimitri looked up from his bowl again. "I just have one small, insignificant question."

"What's that?"

"Your father lives in Moscow."

"That's right."

"You're down to your last few rubles – I literally have nothing."

"Right, what's your question?"

"How in blazes do you propose we actually _get_ to Moscow?"

Irina's Madonna-in-rapture glow dimmed a little, her eyes darkening as she grimly considered the dilemma. "I... Well, I didn't think of _that_."

" _Check, please_!" Dimitri called out in the direction of the nearest waiter.

* * *

_Present_

After the Bolshevik officers checked out, Dimitri got his bedroom back and Anya was returned to the room the officers vacated. After her outburst in the lobby, screaming about gunfire, it didn't seem like a good idea to try and have Anya return to the Ladies' dormitory.

Irina had pointed out, a little quietly, that their waterlily had stopped paying for her stay several days ago, but Dimitri chose to ignore that. When Irina brought it up for the second time, he waved her off and muttered something he didn't mean about setting up a tab for her.

"She'll pay us later," he finished.

"You're the one," Irina had argued, not with her usual vim, as she did feel a _little_ bad for Anya, "who's always said we're not a charity or a soup kitchen – what _is_ it about this woman that's changed your mind? She's not exactly bothering _me_ , mind you, keeps to herself mostly. But having a lunatic boarding here for an extended amount of time–"

"If she's not bothering you, then _just let her be_ ," Dimitri had said, in a tone that implied he'd get angry if Irina said another word even remotely leaning towards the suggestion of tossing Anya Vagonov out. "Something's not right about her – let's not cause a scene. Let her leave when she's ready."

"It's funny," Irina had managed, before dropping the subject and walking off with an armload of linens. "I honestly can't tell anymore if you're falling in love with this woman or if you hate her."

Dimitri wasn't sure himself.

On the one hand, he pitied Anya. She wasn't Anastasia Romanov, but from her looks and obvious trauma (assuming it wasn't an act she put on), for all intents and purposes, she _could_ be. Assuming she was for real, whatever had actually happened to poor Anya during the revolution must have been terrible and caused her to lose her mind.

On the other hand, however, he was furious that she wouldn't be direct. Why couldn't she just tell the truth – say who she really was? He wouldn't hate her for her honesty, not the way he was starting to lose patience with her game.

He was very near the point where he didn't _care_ how on earth she knew about Pooka, or his name, or Count Ipolitov's lavish taste in home decor – he just wanted her to stop bringing those things up and tormenting him with them.

The final straw was when he returned to his room, and his cabinet of icons and mementos, to find Anastasia's music box gone.

She'd _robbed_ him!

Here he'd been defending her, letting her live here for free, eat whenever she wanted – though, admittedly, she took very little food, her small appetite one of the few traits she _didn't_ share with the Anastasia Romanov he remembered – and she had stolen one of the few things he actually valued.

Furious, he stormed into her room.

She was sitting in an old rocker by the window, a knitted shawl another guest had loaned her draped over her frail shoulders, staring out at a back alleyway where a stray cat sat scratching itself on top of a rubbish bin, yawning in the sunshine (there was no proper view of the Neva from this room). From the unfocused look on her face, it was possible she wasn't really seeing the cat, or the alley, but something else entirely – something that might have only existed in her mind.

"Give it back," he told her.

She turned and blinked at him, seeming genuinely puzzled. "Give what back?"

"I won't call the police," Dimitri promised. "But I'd like my property returned now."

Her auburn eyebrows came close together. "I didn't take anything of yours."

"There was a music box in the room you used during the Bolshevik Officers' stay." He struggled not to grit his teeth, his fingernails digging into the palms of his hands. "Now it's gone."

Anya's mouth formed an O of surprise. "But that's _mine_ – Grandmama gave it to _me_."

Dimitri exhaled heavily. "I'm so _tired_ of this game. Who the hell _are_ you?"

"Anastasia Nicholaevna Romanov," she whispered, shivering as if the walls had ears and would snatch her up if they overheard.

He sucked in his cheeks. "Okay, you know what? I'll _play_. Just to settle this once and for all." He took a step nearer her rocker. "How did we meet?"

"You were my brother's companion – we've known each other since we were children."

"And what did your brother call me when he was small?"

Swallowing back a sob, Anastasia choked out, " _Dima_. Alyosha always called you Dima, until he was older – then it was Dimitri, like the rest of us called you."

"The day you checked in here," he pressed on, "whose birthday was it?"

Her shivering got worse. " _Please_..."

"Whose birthday _was_ it?"

"His. My little brother's. Alexei's." She began crying so hard she couldn't speak for several minutes.

"Oh, stop _crying_ ," Dimitri barked, rather pitilessly. "You're not fooling anyone."

"You used to be so kind and gentle," Anya managed brokenly. "You could be insufferable, but you weren't this _cruel_."

To restrain himself from the instinctive urge to put a hand on her arm or shoulder consolingly, he put his hands behind his back and began pacing beside her rocker.

"What," was his next question, "happened the night you were in my room in Tobolsk?"

She blushed, turning bright pink from her hairline to her chin. "We...you and I..."

He shook his head. "Not that."

"I don't know what else you mean."

"Anastasia would. She once told me she remembered _every_ time."

Her face blanching, the pink running out as quick as it had come, she cried, "Aren't we _beyond_ this?"

Sucking in a deep breath, he grunted, "I guess we aren't."

"I hate you for putting me through this."

"The feeling is mutual."

"If you have _any_ affection left for me," Anya pleaded, "I _beg_ you, _stop_ hurting me like this."

"You're going to cry again, aren't you?" he sighed. "That's it, then. You haven't convinced me – I don't know how you know me, or what the Tsarevich called me as a child, but that doesn't make you Anastasia."

She gnawed on her lower lip, struggling against a cough. "You don't _want_ me to be her – that's all." Tears she had tried not let out, just to prove to him he wasn't always right, burst free and started streaming down her face. "I don't know why, but you _don't_."

"Just give back what you took, and we'll pretend this never happened." He couldn't resist one last jab. "You're obviously very good at pretending."

"You want it?" Anya asked darkly, her eyes flashing. "It's on the windowsill. Take it. Sell it. Give it to your precious Irina. Do whatever you want. I don't _care_ anymore."

He started towards the window and she let out a squeak of heartbroken surprise, as if she'd hoped he wouldn't – as if she'd hoped he would come to his senses even at this last moment.

"You never really loved me, did you?" she demanded suddenly. "None of it meant anything to you – not what my Papa did for you, not any of it."

"You're a very confused woman," he said coldly, pushing back the curtain to get at the windowsill. "I don't _know_ you."

That was when Dimitri got the shock of his life. The music box's lid was closing as he moved the curtain. It had been open, _playing_. There had been – though he'd assumed it was just a guest on the other side of the wall doing something or other – a tinkling noise since he'd walked in that he hadn't bothered to try and place. But it had been Anastasia's music box the entire time, playing her grandmother's lullaby. The one he knew so well from childhood – the one he had whistled and hummed in Yekaterinburg when he missed her.

" _How_?" he demanded, whirling on Anya.

Anya opened a fist that had been – though he'd failed to notice this, too – closed around something the entire time.

A small, battered flower pendant lay in the palm of her hand.

"May I?" he asked, his voice rather cowed and shaky now.

She nodded, and he took it from her, examining it.

On the opposite side of the flower, a tarnished, badly damaged medallion had once had some words written on it – words that might have been _Together in Paris_. Now it was illegible. It looked like it had taken a bullet at some point.

Dimitri's hands wouldn't stop shaking. He was sure this was the same pendant Anastasia had worn on a chain around her neck almost every day of her life since her grandmother gave it to her.

How did _Anya_ have it? Much less know it was actually the key to the music box?

Unless she really _was_...

Placing the flower-key on the sill beside the music box, he bent over Anya, motioning at the string that held the nightgown she wore under that shawl closed. "I'm sorry, but..." It was _his_ turn to blush now, but he suffered through it – he needed to know the truth. "Would you mind if I...?"

Rolling her eyes, Anya lifted her own trembling fingers to the string and peeled back the fabric covering her chest.

He pressed his hand to his mouth.

She had scars, bullet wounds. There was even a mark shaped like a flower, left by the pendant. Given its location, it had probably played a large part in saving her life.

"Did you get a good look?" she asked, with what could have been sarcasm if her voice hadn't been so drained and void of any emotion. "See anything interesting?"

His hand still over his mouth, Dimitri dropped to his knees by the rocker, clutching at the wooden arm, gaping up at her.

She blinked at him.

His hand dropped to his side, his forehead bent. "Your highness."

Her hurt expression melted away. "You _mustn't_!" She rose from the rocker and crouched beside him. "Please don't. We're beyond this, and you know it."

As they both righted themselves, Dimitri flung his arms around her, pulling her close, his tears dampening her neck. "Dusha, forgive me – I can explain everything."

"It's all right," she rasped, "this is all I wanted. I just needed you to know me."

He pulled away, to look at her face, his arms still locked around her.

"How," he mulled, "could I have been so _blind_?" Dimitri had thought he was sticking it to a headcase or, worse, a pretender. Until this moment, he had refused to let himself consider he might be tormenting the _real_ Anastasia – the _last_ person who deserved such harshness. "You've been through so much, and you came from God knows how far away, and I..." His voice trailed off. "I've been a complete bastard."

"Maybe not a _complete_ one." A corner of Anya's mouth was turned up.

Tightening his grip on her waist, he brought his mouth to hers and kissed it lingeringly.

Anya moaned softly as his hands slipped from her waist to her thighs, stroking them through the fabric of her nightgown. His lips broke apart from hers, but only for a second before he leaned in for another kiss.

By the third or fourth time this happened, his hands still roaming and his grip on her never loosening, Anya seemed to return to her senses, forcing herself to protest this degree of unexpected physical affection.

Pressing her hands against his chest and pushing him back, she whispered, "You're married."

For a moment, Dimitri actually had no clue what she was talking about. The words made no impression and seemed, to his distracted mind, to be total nonsense. He found himself staring into her moist blue eyes for several seconds, trying to work out what in heaven's name she _meant_.

And, more importantly, why it was preventing him from continuing to kiss her.

" _Irina_ ," she prompted, a little tetchily.

"Whoa. Hold on." His nose wrinkled. "I'm not married to Irina."

Her brow furrowed. "You're... _not_...?" She looked down at his right hand. "But...the wedding ring you wear...and the Bolsheviks, you told them... I heard..."

"Dusha, it's a long story," Dimitri sighed, sucking his teeth. "Most of it I'm not very proud of."

"Are you..." She seemed to be searching his face, looking for an answer she could live with. "Do you love her?"

"Oh, _hell_ no." He knew it probably would have been more charitable on his part to have said this kindly, with less venom, but he couldn't help himself.

Anya scowled and pulled away from him, punching his arm hard enough to make him flinch. "You _idiot_! You had me going crazy thinking the two of you were madly in love."

"You really thought I was that convincing?" He couldn't help grinning, even as he rubbed his sore arm.

"Don't be so damn _happy_ about it!" she laughed, her voice flooding quickly with relief.

"I thought you were _dead_ ," he murmured, stroking the side of her face. "I was in the woods that night in Yekaterinburg. I heard a shot. I thought the guards found you first."

Anya gazed at him in wonder, lips parted slightly. "You were there?"

He nodded. "I missed curfew, next thing I knew there was the truck and–"

"You're the one who put Alexei under that tree," she realized, as he pulled her back into his arms.

"Yeah, that was me."

"I found him there, already cold and dead..."

"But the guards...?"

"Gleb found me," Anya explained. "I didn't think he would let me go – he'd already shot me once that night...but..."

Dimitri felt the blood in his veins run cold. He knew he had no right to judge, even if she had done what he suddenly feared. Either way, though, he wanted to know.

"You gave your name as Anya _Vagonov_ in the registry," he said. "Does that mean you and Gleb were–"

She shook her head adamantly. "No, Dimitri, of _course_ not! He did _ask_ me, before that night – you were right about that. But I said no."

"Then why are you using his name?"

"Because he's dead, and it was an easy name to think of when people started asking dangerous questions."

"Seems to me," Dimitri realized, "both of us have just been playacting to get by."

"So neither of us has someone," Anya noted.

He smirked. "Yes, we do." They had each other. And thank God for that much, considering the misery they seemed to bring to anyone who got caught in the crossfire between them.

A little shyly, Anya started pulling him in the direction of the bed. Taking one of his hands, she placed it gently on her still somewhat exposed chest.

"Not here," he told her.

* * *

Half an hour later, Anya was in Dimitri's room, wrapped in his arms and bed-sheets, staring up at the chipped crown molding around the top of what used to be a supporting palace pillar, now strung with what appeared to be a kind of makeshift clothesline.

Draped across it at the moment were her borrowed nightdress and shawl and Dimitri's pants.

"So," she laughed, turning her head on the pillow to look at him, "this was _your_ room I was staying in. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't know you were...well, _you_...then..." he said, grimacing at his own stupidity. "I know, I know – I'm an idiotka."

"All those holy icons in that cabinet are yours, too?"

He leaned over her to steal a kiss. "Yes."

Anya laughed again. "You're devout now – Mama would _love_ that." _Would have_ loved that.

"I guess all those years of her constantly nagging us to say our prayers had more affect on me than I realized."

Touching the side of his face, tracing his jawbone and dragging it down to hers for yet another kiss, then lightly pulling away, she sighed, "I thought you'd put my music box out of sight to forget about me." And, in reality, he'd just been keeping it as close as possible. "Especially after how you sang that vile song about Papa."

"I didn't _want_ to," he admitted, gritting his teeth at the memory, at the nasty words that must have been like knives in Anastasia's heart. "It puts me in a bad mood every time – that was why I wasn't more patient when you started screaming in front of those officers.

"And when you mentioned Pooka, I thought – for a second – that if I was _wrong_... I had to keep myself angry, then, to keep from going to bits, so I tried to believe it was all for attention."

She felt herself growing cold at the thought of what she now had to confess to him. "That happens to me _all the time_ now, Dimitri, I'm sorry."

Smoothing back her hair, he whispered, "Don't be."

"It's why I tried to..." She shivered, remembering her determination to sew those rocks into her corset and end it all, rejoining her lost family and putting a stop to the nightmares, the cold-even-in-summer water of the Neva's current... " _Oh_!"

"What's wrong?" Dimitri's face creased with concern.

"Nothing, it's just..." She tried – unsuccessfully – not to smile at her own mistake. "I finally realized what you meant."

"What I mean when?"

"When you asked me about that night in Tobolsk," Anya said. "You meant Alexei bursting a blood vessel from coughing."

He jerked his head in a slight nod.

"When do you have to be downstairs?" she asked next, a little nervous about the answer. She didn't want him to go so soon. Still, there was a hostel that doubtless needed running. Irina didn't strike her as _incompetent_ , exactly, but she doubted the woman was capable of running the whole place all day without help of any sort.

"Quarter till never," he grunted.

"You weren't planning to stay in bed all day?" Anya teased, laughing.

"I am _now_ ," Dimitri told her, his tone so utterly serious it made her laugh even harder.

"Don't tease me."

"I'm not – I just think, after nine years of being apart, it's only fair that for the _next_ nine years we get to stay _exactly_ like this."

"Hard to argue with that," Anya concurred, stretching her arm over to stroke his hair. "But I'll get on your nerves after a while, don't you think?"

"Yeah, I suppose so." He smirked. "After about _ten_ years – so nine won't be a problem."

"Okay, _now_ you're teasing me."

"Perhaps a little."

Anya propped herself up on her elbow and stared down at him. "You know, you look just like I remember you – except taller and thinner." She pressed her lips together tightly, squinting a little. "I remembered you shorter."

"And _fatter_?" he suggested, chortling.

"I used to draw so many pictures of you – you looked fat in every one of them."

" _Charming_ girl."

"Maybe that's why I remember you being rounder."

"Probably," he agreed, his mind skipping to something else. "Hey, there's something I wanted to ask you about – now that I finally _can_."

She lowered her head onto his chest. "What's that?"

"In Tobolsk, we said vows to each other," Dimitri mused. "That's not very Russian Orthodox – did you pick that idea up from one of your English cousins?"

Anya sighed, then giggled lightly. "More from Auntie Olga's romance novels, I think. Mama disapproved of them, said they were filth; but they were always being left around whenever Papa's sister visited... I thought they were silly, but I used to sneak and read them anyway." Tilting her head up, she frowned. "Hey, you were pretty smooth with your vows – how did _you_ know what you were doing?"

Dimitri looked embarrassed. "You'll make fun of me."

"Undoubtedly," she assured him, kissing his chin playfully. "Tell me anyway."

"I read your Aunt Olga's books, too."

"You did _not_!"

"I was a bored servant, going through puberty, and there were a lot of bodices getting ripped open," he defended himself, his cheeks flushing redder by the second. "Almost every other page!"

"You _should_ probably check on things downstairs eventually."

" _Nyet_."

Anya rolled her eyes. He was so _stubborn_ ; she'd missed that. "I'm a bit hungry," she admitted, knowing there was no other way she was ever going to get him out of the bed. "I didn't have breakfast, and we took a lot of exercise."

"Oh, _right_." He kissed her forehead and started to get up. "I guess I could get us something to eat – check on things downstairs while I'm at it."

"That would probably be for the best."

"Do you still like blini with smoked salmon?"

It had been one of her favorite childhood foods – she was surprised and touched that he remembered. "Mmm, very much."

"Please _be here_ when I come back." There was the saddest lilt to his voice, laced with twinges of fear.

"Don't worry," Anya promised, gazing about the room that had seemed so austere the last night she'd spent in it and now seemed like the most beautiful dwelling in Russia – if not the whole _world_. "I'm not going anywhere."

* * *

Late that night, well past midnight, Dimitri was deep in slumber when Irina's nasal voice broke into his dreams.

"Come _on_ , wake up already!" She was shaking his arm rather frantically, and his first thought as he returned to consciousness was that something had better be on _fire_.

"How did you even _get_ in here?" he snapped, his eyes opening only to immediately narrow in annoyance.

"The door was open," Irina said offhandedly.

That didn't sound right. He never left that door open – for various reasons, a _large_ one being he didn't want Irina to just stroll in uninvited. She had never been welcome in his personal space.

Fuzzily, in the back of his mind, it occurred to him that Irina being in here must mean she'd seen Anya sharing his bed. Then he immediately decided he didn't care – it wasn't any concern of _hers_.

Now that he knew Anya really was Anastasia, he wasn't planning on ever putting her back in that other room – let the damned Bolsheviks have it whenever they came back.

To his surprise, though, when he rolled over, Anya wasn't there. The creased covers beside him were empty.

Irina sucked her teeth. "If you're looking for Miss Unknown, that's what I came to _tell_ you."

"Where is she?" He wasn't able to keep his voice from coming across as accusatory.

Irina pouted awkwardly. "I think you'd better see this for yourself."

* * *

Dimitri's anxiety had only grown as Irina led him down several corridors to a small corner-room they used for storing the camp cots they kept for overflow in the dormitories.

With a groan of annoyance, Irina pushed open the door to reveal that half the room had been rearranged. "I was down in the kitchen for a nightcap, right below, and I heard noises – come to find out, our waterlily is moving the cots around."

Dimitri half-listened, mostly trying to figure out what the new arrangement reminded him of.

"I tried to make her stop," Irina went on, "but it was like she was in a trance or something – sleepwalking, I guess." She motioned to one of the rearranged cots. "Then she just plops herself in there and refuses to get out."

Oh, _God_. He'd just figured it out. Exactly where he'd seen this precise arrangement before. _Tobolsk_. This was the exact way the grand duchesses arranged their cots in their bedroom in that freezing Siberian mansion.

"She said your name a couple times, _mumbled_ it more like," Irina kept prattling, her voice growing more high-pitched. "So I went to get you. Didn't have the slightest clue what else would make her leave."

Dimitri bent over the cot and touched Anya's neck gently. "Anya, come back to the room with me, you're just having a nightmare."

"I can't," she yawned, her eyes still closed.

"Why not?"

"I have to wait until Tatya falls asleep." She pulled herself into a fetal position. "I'll come to you after that."

Rather than tell her Tatya – her sister Tatiana – had been dead for nine years and the other three cots she'd set up were in fact empty, he lifted her up and carried her back to his room, ignoring Irina's nagging questions as she followed them more than halfway, only stopping to storm into her own bedroom and close the door in something of a huff as they passed by it.

In the morning, when Dimitri asked her about it, Anya didn't remember a thing. She believed she'd spent the whole night at his side, and was genuinely shocked when he showed her what she had done to the storage room.


	38. New Schemes Are Afoot

_New Schemes Are Afoot_

Dimitri was so engrossed in his task of dismantling the four camp cots and stacking them back into their proper storage locations that he didn't hear the approaching footsteps and was startled by a pointed, " _Ahem_."

His facial expression resembled that of a child caught with his hand in a cookie jar. "Anya, I thought you were still asleep."

She leaned her head against the framework and closed her eyes wearily. "How many times, Dimitri? _Every_ night now?"

He had gotten into the habit of waking up before her and checking the storage room to see if she'd crept out of bed in the night to rearrange the cots to resemble the Tobolsk set-up again.

If such proved to be the case, as more and more often it _did_ , he tried to put it back the way it was supposed to be before she got up.

He'd gotten away with it thus far, but he should have known his luck couldn't last.

Anya had grown suspicious, somehow. He'd never let it slip, he was sure of that, and he'd even told Irina not to bring it up to her. And still she had managed to guess what he was up to, as well as her own role in this endless cycle.

The first time it happened, when she'd insisted on waiting for Tatiana to fall asleep before she could return to the room with him, and he had told her in the morning, she'd been almost _amused_.

More in shock, of course, but with just a twinge of near-detached interest.

After that, she always returned to bed on her own, seeming well enough in the morning. So it didn't feel like such a big thing. At least, not to _him_. Dimitri didn't mind going behind and fixing the cots – it was a small price to pay to have her back in his life. She was a miracle he thanked God for every day now.

But to Anya, creeping fear was an enemy she couldn't always stave off.

She was afraid of her actions, afraid of where her subconscious would lead her against her will.

If her episodes of revisiting the past had been frightening _before_ reuniting with Dimitri, it was even _more_ so once she had him back – because she had gained something that, while wonderful, could so easily be lost again.

So Dimitri tried to allay her fears somewhat by taking care of the evidence on his own.

"How many _times_?" she repeated, opening her eyes.

"It's not every night," Dimitri defended weakly. Almost it was, but not quite _every_ night.

"At least when I scream like I did that night in front of the Bolshie officers," Anya said quietly, "I remember it." She shuddered. "It's so much worse not even having a dream of it in the back of my head, doing something like _this_ over and over again."

"Anya, it's all right," he tried to reassure her. "You'll get better."

"What if I _don't_?" she murmured.

"Then I'll have a lot of experience dismantling cots," he joked, unwittingly saying exactly the wrong thing.

She blanched. "You don't deserve to be saddled with a crazy person forever."

"You're not crazy – you've told me so yourself."

"I'm not so sure anymore," Anya admitted. "Maybe I _am_ crazy, or _cursed_."

Dimitri left the cots and rushed over to her. " _Nyet_."

Tears filled her eyes. "Dimitri, I don't know how much longer I can stay here."

"What are you saying?" He took her shaking hands, enfolding his own over them and clutching them tightly against his abdomen.

"I'm saying, I think I need to get out of Russia." She swallowed. "There's too much here that reminds me of them – and too many dangers. I feel like I've run out of time here."

Relief flooded his body, making his limbs feel monetarily like loose jelly. "That's all?" He had been thinking she meant leaving him, or trying to harm herself again. "You just want to get out of Russia?"

"I understand you have a lot here, after so many years," Anya told him, looking down at his hands still clutching hers. "I wouldn't ask you to give up–"

"I'm coming _with_ you!" Dimitri exclaimed, adamant in this. "You still owe me nine years of seeing your face every day, remember?"

Anya smiled broadly. "How could I forget?"

"It might take a little while to arrange things," Dimitri mused, his mouth tightening into a thin line, "but I'll try to speed it up if I can."

"Where will we go?"

He shrugged. "Why not Paris? You have a grandmother there, after all."

Anya's smile dimmed. "Suppose Grandmama doesn't recognize me, like _you_ didn't at first?"

"Then you'll convince her the way you convinced me." That was the _least_ of his worries.

"What about the hostel?"

"Irina can have it." He glanced at the ring on his right hand. "Find herself another fake husband to help run the place."

"You've never been to Paris," Anya noted; "it was very beautiful when I was a little girl."

"You'll have to take me to see all your favorite spots, then," he declared, good-humoredly. "And no matter what happens with your grandmother, we'll stick together."

"They won't..."

"Won't _what_ , Dusha?"

Her blue eyes grew wide. "They won't separate us if Grandmama recognizes me as Anastasia, will they?"

Dimitri snorted. "I'd like to see them _try_."

He might have been a little afraid of that potential outcome, but he wasn't going to let it show and pass that fear on to _her_ , nor was he planning on letting anything like that happen without a fight.

Whatever the more distant Romanov relations came to think of him, he loved their princess and viewed himself as her husband. And he sure as anything wasn't going to give her up.

Luckily, he also had a little plan involving the Orthodox Church. He hoped that if _it_ joined them together before they ever set foot in Paris, no relative of hers would want to risk their soul to tear them apart.

"How soon will you start getting things ready?" Anya wanted to know. "I've heard they're closing borders and canceling trains left and right."

"I'll start today," he said, lifting her hands to his mouth and kissing the back of one. "Don't worry, we'll get out."

And from _there_ , he planned, they would spend the rest of their lives together.

* * *

In the dim light of the pantry, Irina was studying a jar of pickled eggs with a bemused look on her face.

Dimitri snapped his fingers in her peripheral vision in an attempt to get her attention. " _Irina_!"

"Yes, yes, I see you." Taking a few steps back, she frowned at the jar again, holding it up to his eye-level so he could see, too. "Dimitri, I think our cook is stealing from us – I counted six eggs yesterday – now I see only four."

"Four eggs and one fat beetle drowned in the brine," Dimitri noted, wrinkling his nose.

She set the jar down on the nearest shelf. " _Whatever_."

"Irina, I need to tell you something."

"What is it?" She fiddled with the sleeves under her chintz smock, one of which she'd rolled up awkwardly and was in the process of straightening.

"I'm leaving."

"I'll see you when you get back, then." Her brow furrowed. "Since when do you _tell_ me when you leave the hostel?"

"No, Irina, I'm _leaving_." He lifted his eyebrows. "I'm going to marry Anya and leave this place – the hostel is yours now. You can even rename it, if you want."

Irina's face paled. "You're joking."

"I've never been more serious in my life." He slipped the ring off his right hand and offered it to her.

She refused to take it, letting the meaningless symbol of their meaningless partnership fall to the marble floor in front of her with a hollow-sounding _clink_. "You can't marry our little waterlily, fancy her as you might, because you're supposed to be married to _me_. What will people _say_?"

Making a rude dismissive noise, he shrugged his shoulders. "Tell them I abandoned you, find some other guy off the street to replace me."

"But if they see you around..."

"I'm not going to _be_ around."

"Where are you going?"

"France, perhaps."

She took a few steps towards him, her expression turning hopeful – if only for that one moment. "Take me _with_ you!"

"Are you _insane_?" he scoffed, his face recoiling automatically.

"Papa won't accept anything I say once he knows we're not together anymore," she whined, clawing at his arm, trying to get a grip on it. "I'll be cut off! Take me with you, or wait until he dies before you marry Miss Unknown. I don't see what the big hurry is. Please, Dimitri, please have _pity_!"

"We both know you can take care of yourself," he said flatly. "You just want to leave Russia – you're sick of this place, too – that's fine, find someone else to help you do that."

Irina's hazel eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Wait, I see what's up here."

" _What_?"

"She's shorter than me, and she's got blue eyes."

"Yeah, so?"

Glaring with venom, she accused him. "You're going to take our waterlily to Paris – with _my_ scheme – and present _her_ as Princess Anastasia, aren't you? This isn't about marrying some woman you've barely known for, what, a _fortnight_? It's about not wanting to share the reward money with _me_!"

"That's not true – no scheme of yours is _worth_ stealing."

"Isn't it?" She stomped her foot and banged her elbow against a dangling row of cooking pots. "You know how many times I could have reported you for illegal activity and didn't?"

"I guess I _don't_ know," he simpered sarcastically. "How many times, Irina?"

"The black market, anti-revolutionary behavior, forgeries..." She shook her head furiously. "And I _helped_ you!"

"All of those things allowed _you_ to survive, too," he growled, infuriated by her hypocrisy. "Don't get righteous on me now just because things aren't going your way."

"I _saved_ you," she countered, her voice growing squeaky, desperate. "Please, you still _need_ me. I can... I can teach her to be ladylike, more convincing for the dowager. I know that's what you really want."

"You were only interested in saving yourself and getting your father's money," Dimitri shot back, pointing his index finger at her face. " _Don't_ act like you were doing me any free favors. And – for the record, Irina – you don't know the first thing about being ladylike. Even if this _was_ a scheme, the _last_ thing Anya would need would be lessons from _you_."

"If you put me in danger of _losing_ that money," she threatened, slapping his hand away, "I will see to it you never get what you claim you want."

"Don't threaten me," he laughed, taunting her. "You know threats have always been _my_ weapon of choice, and I'm the only one between the two of us who uses them right."

Gnashing her teeth and tucking a stray red curl behind one of her ears, she growled, "It's not a _threat_ , Dimitri, it's a _promise_."

"What is?"

"Do what you want – get things ready, pack your bags – but I _swear_ you will _never_ marry that woman."

* * *

For all that he was rarely _kind_ to her exactly, often bringing much of her malice upon himself in situations where it might be avoided with a tactful word or two, Dimitri had sized up Irina and her maliciousness pretty well.

He was right about how vindictive she could be, when she wanted to, or felt she needed to.

But he also underestimated her.

Irina's friends were so laughably brain-dead that he took for granted the idea that Irina must share their lack of intelligence. He had reason to believe this – and that reason, largely, was arrogance on his part.

Dimitri was smart, and he knew from the moment he met her that he was _considerably_ smarter than Irina. Rather than gently correct her, as he might have done if he had ever loved her – or even _liked_ her – he held the power of his superior intellect over her.

Never once had Dimitri missed an opportunity to point out that she was, frankly, quite stupid when compared to him.

Perhaps if he hadn't had a childhood sweetheart who was his match in every way, including intellect and verbal sparring – who didn't put up with his nonsense, who both challenged and calmed him simultaneously – he wouldn't have been so aggressive with Irina, who'd never had any hope of competing with him.

This had led him to honestly believe he was untouchable – that Irina, beyond only petty things, couldn't possibly hurt him.

So, when he left the hostel to make some preparations, tearing himself reluctantly from Anya's side, Dimitri never imagined he would come back to find the perfect life he was arranging to make up for the nightmare he'd lived over the past nine years reassembled in a broken, fragile state.

Irina seized her opportunity. She opened the safe only she and Dimitri knew the simple (it had to be simple, or she'd forget) combination to. It was supposed to be for emergencies. She was meant only to pull these documents and pictures out as proof if a government official started asking too many questions or disbelieving some part of their story.

They were kept in a crisp manila envelope with a single crease running down the middle from the time they'd had to fold it in half and tuck it into a smaller space.

There was no turning back from this.

If she went this far, she knew she'd be at war with Dimitri forever.

Even if he didn't really love this woman – whatever his motives actually were – one thing was clear: for some reason, he _wanted_ her.

Dimitri wanted this insane woman they'd pulled from the Neva more than Irina had ever witnessed him wanting anything in all the time they'd known one another. If she pulled this stunt and took her from him, splitting them apart, there was no telling how he would get back at her.

Except, she told herself, he'd _started_ this war – he'd already declared it by trying to abandon her, perhaps even stealing her Romanov Princess in Paris scheme.

So she would do this, strike a blow and keep her bitter promise, and let the chips fall where they liked.

Envelope in hand, Irina made her way up the stairs and to Dimitri's room, where she expected to find Anya.

When the waterlily wasn't there, she frowned and tried to think. Could she be inside the storage room again, messing with the cots?

Upon searching there, Irina still didn't find her.

By the time she finally stumbled upon the wandering miss, in the former main ballroom, swaying and curtsying in front of a mirror-lined wall, she was hot and out of breath and nearly ready to give up. She had vindictiveness by the bucketful, but no real stamina. Tiredness, even in moderation, could make her reconsider if her schemes were worth the effort.

She might have turned around then and there and never said a word to Anya, if only she hadn't see the _grace_ of the waterlily's delicate bows. A professional dancer could hardly have done better.

Anya really did move like a princess. And if Dimitri was to present her, with that poise and natural smoothness of movement, he might just get away with it.

But it wasn't _fair_! This woman was no more a Romanov than she, Irina Alexandrovna, was – who was to say how the little trollop had been living before Dimitri prevented her suicide and became enamored of her.

She almost regretted her own part in that rescue. If she had let the woman sink to the bottom of the Neva and never emerge, nothing would have changed here.

Screwing her courage, fueled by outrage, Irina pushed the half-opened door the rest of the way and let herself inside. "Hello, dearie."

* * *

Anya nearly jumped out of her skin when Irina entered. She hadn't expected to be spied on. She'd figured she could explore a little, while Dimitri was gone and Irina would be too preoccupied running the hostel to bother following her.

This ballroom, despite the dust and the musty smell brought on by disuse, was almost exactly how she remembered it, minus the lighted chandeliers. Anya hadn't been able to resist dancing a little in front of the mirrors, practicing her curtsy – a skill she hadn't had cause to use for years and sometimes wondered if she'd ever need again.

Knowing that Dimitri wasn't married to this woman had made Anya charitable towards her. Irina was not her favorite sort of person, perhaps, but she no longer viewed her as a rival or usurper. So she managed a small smile, asking what Irina needed.

There was a strange, darkly merry light flickering in Irina's hazel eyes, though she was trying – without much success – to look grave.

"I thought we should talk."

Anya frowned uncertainly. "Oh, yes? What about?"

"My husband."

She shook her head. "I know Dimitri isn't married to you."

Pressing her free hand – the one that wasn't holding an envelope poorly concealed behind her back – to her heart, she gasped, "Is _that_ what he told you?"

Anya nodded, beginning to dislike this conversation.

"How sure of his word are you?" Bringing out the envelope with a much too exaggerated flourish, Irina opened it and dragged out its contents. "Because I have proof here that says otherwise."

At first, Anya was ready to wave it off and ask Irina to please leave her alone. Then she got a better look. This couldn't be helped, the way Irina was waving the blasted things under her nose.

Official, stamped documents stated that Dimitri and Irina had married seven years ago. More damning still were the _photographs_. An orthodox wedding, with Dimitri and Irina's hands being joined by a priest. A candid shot of Irina hugging her frail-looking father goodbye while decked in full wedding garb, preparing to step into a waiting car.

"He _does_ love me, really, you know," Irina said, chomping down a chew of tobacco in her mouth. "Things have just been tough between us since..." She blinked, bringing forth tears that did not seem entirely forced. "Well, since I lost the baby."

Anya blanched. What was Irina _talking_ about? Dimitri had made it seem as if he and this woman had never... That it was all a farce.

Reaching over, Irina made sure Anya didn't miss an extra photograph, one that had gotten stuck to the back of another.

In this picture, Irina – on a park bench someplace – was clearly pregnant, possibly as far as five months, with Dimitri siting beside her, demurely smoking a cigarette and staring off in the opposite direction rather than looking at the camera.

"When I miscarried our child," Irina sniffled, "things started going all wrong between us. We both said a lot of things we regret – at least, _I_ regret them. I regret blaming him for things that were not his fault, you see."

"It's not tr–" Anya started, but was interrupted.

"I'm not cross that he took up with you as he did," Irina pressed on, magnanimous. "I understand – I haven't made him happy in a long time – but I'm asking you now not to take him away from me. Don't let him take you to Paris, please."

Skeptical of Irina's sincerity, but also inexplicably bewildered by doubt, Anya whispered, "What is it you want from me?"

"I won't spell it out, dearie," Irina told her, gathering up the pictures and documents and smoothly sliding them back into the envelope. "But if I were in your shoes, and a man misled me as my husband did you, _I_ would be gone before he returned."


	39. Franziska Schanzkowska

_Franziska Schanzkowska_

For persons who had been – on the whole – as unlucky as Anya and Dimitri, it is strange to report how narrowly fortunate they were in this one instance.

If two things had not happened, almost exactly at the same time, Irina's unimaginative yet undeniably cunning plan might have _worked_. Dimitri might have returned to the hostel, a faint whistle dying on his lips as he pushed open the door to his bedroom, to find Anya gone, not a trace left of her.

She might not even have found it in herself to leave a farewell note. She wouldn't have known, with so many spinning ideas put into her head, whether to write it with an apologetic tone or else an angry, accusatory one.

From there, another miraculous reunion would have been highly improbable. Saint Petersburg is no small place – even knowing her as he did, Dimitri wouldn't have guessed where to begin searching.

In her fragile state, who was to say she wouldn't have wandered back to the Neva to finish the task she'd started there? This would not have been a sign of pure weakness; people have done more dire things for less. To have lost _him_ , after her family, with nothing else put in their places to keep her tethered to this world, one couldn't have entirely blamed her.

But two things happened that prevented this outcome.

Firstly, Dimitri took a shortcut. He had not planned to, but having paused in an alleyway to catch his breath and briefly watch a small kid kicking an empty bean-can, he heard the donging of the familiar worker's clock in the square. It rang out a few minutes too early, causing him to believe he was late to meet with a priest he wanted to have a quick conversation with before heading back to the hostel. They had arranged to meet at a specific time, and if he did not show at it _precisely_ , the priest was likely to bail. So, cursing under his breath (best to get that sort of thing out of the way before he was within earshot of a holy man), he broke into a sprint and took the shortcut.

The conversation itself didn't last long – Dimitri just said what it was he wanted, the priest nodded his assent and a time for _that_ was arranged.

And, their interview concluded, he was briskly heading back to the hostel.

Second, Anya, rather than begin to throw her few accumulated things – mainly scraps of clothing and such, along with Grandmama's music box – immediately into the suitcase she'd dragged out from under Dimitri's bed, took a heartbroken moment to sit upon it, stare blankly at a stray sunbeam floating in through the window, and cry.

When she had spent all her tears, her disbelief ran out, replaced by anger. _Then_ she flung the suitcase open and began tossing things inside it.

And, at the same moment, Dimitri returned and started up the stairs.

She barely reacted when he walked into the bedroom, still gathering things.

"We'll have time to pack later," he commented, confused.

Her gaze was stony. "Will we?" She paused her furious sorting at a small, lacy garment she didn't recognize. "What's this?"

"Oh, I bought that for you when we–"

She flung it aside. "I don't want it."

Sensing that something wasn't right, Dimitri looked at the suitcase again, then back at her. This wasn't their trip to Paris she was packing for. "Where are you going?"

"Anywhere that's far from you!"

"Clearly, I've missed something." Looking over his shoulder, he shut the door behind himself. "Anya, stop for a moment. Tell me what's happened."

She didn't stop – she was afraid she might collapse if she did. "I was suicidal and desperate when you pulled me out of that river," she fumed, "but I wasn't _dishonest_." Her voice cracked. "I wasn't..." God, she couldn't even _say_ it. _An adulterer._

"What are you talking about?"

Anya dashed across the room, slamming the suitcase shut. "Irina showed me your wedding pictures and documents." Her hands shook. "I kept telling myself it was a trick, that you would clear everything up when you got back – then I realized; the explanation was you _lied_ , from the very beginning."

"Anya–"

"You should have told me the _moment_ ," she hissed, "you realized I was Anastasia. You should have told me you could never be with me honestly."

"Are you out of your mind?"

"I must have been," Anya sobbed, tears returning in full now, "to think we could ever..." Her voice broke and she hiccupped violently. "That someone cursed like me would ever be allowed to just be happy."

"What _exactly_ ," Dimitri said, his voice growing very slow and dark, "did Irina tell you?"

"She hardly had to _tell_ me anything – there were the _photographs_." Anya hiccupped again. "She did tell me about..." It felt as if knives were stabbing into her heart as she reiterated this last blow. "About the baby."

"Irina's baby," Dimitri said flatly, trying to make sense of this. "The one she lost."

How could he be so _cold_? To speak so about his own dead child! Even despising the mother as he obviously did was no excuse.

For he _did_ hate her, that much Anya knew.

Anya didn't for a moment believe Irina about Dimitri's being in love with her for real, in _that_ the foolish woman had been overconfident and taken it rather too far, but she had come around to the idea that the marriage – for whatever reason it was agreed upon by both parties and performed by that priest – had been a real one, with all that that entailed.

"Hold on." From the horrified look on Anya's face, Dimitri worked it out. "You don't think it was _mine_?"

 _Wasn't_ it? Anya didn't _quite_ stop, but she began moving a little slower.

"Anya, I don't think you realize how _repulsive_ I actually find the idea of being with Irina physically."

She frowned.

"I don't know who fathered that child, but it sure as hell wasn't _me_." He rolled his eyes. "Frankly, there isn't enough vodka in the _world_."

"And the priest?" she countered, folding her arms not so much to cross them temperamentally as to rub away forming goose-pimples. "The documents?"

Dimitri gave her a withering stare. "The documents are forgeries, and that 'priest' is the son of Nikolai from _Nikolai's Canned Goods_ factory in Moscow – he wants to be an actor. He did seven years ago, anyway; I haven't seen the man since."

As this new information sank in, Anya swayed and felt her knees almost buckle under her. "Then why...?"

"Those pictures were supposed to buy Irina and I some time if the Bolshie bastards ever caught on to us." He shook his head. "That's _all_."

Anya pressed her hand to her mouth. "Oh, God, I was about to make such a terrible mistake."

Dimitri came in and put his arms around her, guiding her to the edge of the bed so they could sit down together. "It's all right – I don't blame _you_."

"There's still so much I don't understand," Anya told him. "If you hate her, why work together? Why go through all this trouble?"

Dimitri's mouth flattened into a distressed line. "I didn't want to tell you about that – I was too ashamed, and we were happy, so..."

"What _happened_?" She spoke gently now, her face showing nothing but sympathy and concern.

Dimitri took a deep breath. "There's no way I can get out of telling you this?"

"Absolutely none."

"Fine," he gave in. "I'll tell you everything."

* * *

Eight years earlier, Dimitri had gotten involved with a group of counter-revolutionaries. His hatred of the Bolsheviks for what they'd done to the Romanovs had brought him to their side with such a vim for sabotage that his fellow conspirators could hardly believe their luck. He threw himself into every task they gave him, rarely failing, never getting caught, and always having excellent suggestions.

While his main language was Russian, just like theirs, they were delighted to discover that he knew snippets of French and English (this was, of course, from his time as Alexei's companion, sitting in on the young Tsarevich's lessons). They started to pass encoded letters from various persons outside of the country offering their support, asking him to assist in the translation. He did all right with the French, though he tended to get more wrong than he or his compatriots liked, but was liable to lose his temper if the day was poor and an English code proved too difficult for him.

By and by, it came about that most letters from French aristocrats passed, at least briefly, through Dimitri's hands.

"You would never guess," he told Anya, "who I ended up finding because of those letters."

"Who?" she'd asked eagerly, seeing a bit of light in his eyes at this one part of the story.

" _Vlad_." He'd grinned telling that part. "The same Vladimir who used to be part of your imperial court and gave you that brownie camera."

Eventually, Dimitri had had a falling out with the group giving him the letters, but by then he and Vlad were already communicating back and forth through encoded letters of their own – largely in Russian, with the odd French word tossed in, but peppered with nonsense sentences only they knew how to interpret.

"Did he marry Sophie?" Anya wanted to know.

Dimitri nodded. "Indeed. I exchanged letters with _her_ as well. I thought, with her connections, she might have some ideas for getting me out of Russia – I've never been happy here in the new order."

That was, unfortunately, what started the trouble that would put Dimitri on the road to a false marriage to Irina.

For Sophie, on a brief (and mostly unpleasant) trip to Berlin, discovered a young woman in a mental hospital – going by the name of Franziska Schanzkowska – she became convinced was actually Anastasia Romanov suffering from amnesia.

Anya looked discomfited when Dimitri told her this part, perhaps beginning to sense where this was headed. "How would _she_ know? She barely _knew_ me." She was fond of Cousin Sophie, of course, but Grandmama had only brought her occasionally to Russia with her – usually this lady-in-waiting stayed behind in Paris while a Russian one took over her duties during the dowager's visit.

"That's what I thought, too," Dimitri admitted. "At _first_."

"What changed your mind?"

Dimitri grimaced. " _Vlad_ thought it might just be you – and I thought he might remember better than his wife."

It had been mostly a case of grasping at straws. Dimitri, after telling himself so many times Anastasia Romanov was dead, wanted to believe this miracle had occurred.

That Vlad and Sophie really had found the only girl he'd ever loved alive in Berlin.

There had been impostors already, even after only a year since the horrific event took place, but Dimitri put no stock into that – the _real_ Anastasia would have known about him, and there was no written record of his service to the Romanovs.

The imposers didn't know of his existence, and thus never sought him out.

This Franziska, however, seemed promising. Sophie reported that her ears were exactly like Anastasia's; Vlad insisted that she'd recognized him, if only for a moment, when he first walked in, and also had 'weird feet' like Anastasia.

When Vlad began to send letters claiming the woman in Berlin spoke, if a little incoherently, about Dimitri, about their childhood together, his heart took over all reason, pushing the warnings from his mind aside. This woman _couldn't_ be a fake, not if she knew things like that. She seemed to know nothing about their being more than friends, only those childhood snippets, but Dimitri put that down to the amnesia and trauma. Sophie had explained that this poor woman really was very sick.

Dimitri's original plan was to make his way to Berlin to meet her there for himself.

Franziska, when she was well enough to sit up and compose letters herself, had one sent to Dimitri, saying – in a message encoded carefully by Vladimir – that she thought they really did know one another, that she'd come to believe it with all her heart, and only wished she recalled things better.

In response, Dimitri had gotten more involved with his plans to travel to Berlin, only for another letter to arrive, stating that _she_ wanted to come to _him_.

It was madness, of course. Russia was unsafe for a Romanov survivor. Still, this Franziska insisted.

It had seemed the wiser course for Sophie to simply take the girl to Paris and present her to the Dowager Empress. But the empress wouldn't see her – she refused to accept, even a year after the event, that the family had truly been slaughtered in that way. She wouldn't come around to the idea and offer a reward until much later.

By then Franziska was no longer a candidate for a possible Anastasia Romanov.

"According to Sophie," Dimitri told Anya gravely, "when your grandmother heard what they did to you, she said 'Not _all of them_ , I don't _believe_ it!' and wouldn't listen to another word from anyone."

Anya reached over and squeezed his hand. "But couldn't they send a _picture_? Or wasn't there _some_ other way you could have know she wasn't me?"

"Sophie might have sent a photograph to your grandmother, only to have it discarded, but they couldn't send one to _me_ – it wasn't safe."

There had been signs, though. Things Dimitri later chided himself for dismissing. For instance, Franziska spoke no Russian, although Sophie swore that another patient insisted she understood it fluently. At any rate, she had communicated with Vlad and Sophie only in German.

A strange choice, that. Berlin or not, Dimitri would have thought Anastasia more likely to pick French or English, both of which she preferred to German.

In the end, a plot had been hatched, at Franziska's insistence, for Dimitri to pour money into a way to smuggle her – in absurd luxury, no less – back into Russia. And, like a fool, he'd gone along with it. Even Vlad had told him it was dangerous insanity and threatened to stop corresponding with him if he pursued this madcap idea.

It had been the last letter he got from Vlad, leaving them parted in bad blood, but _Sophie_ did write him afterwards, when the truth came out, to apologize profusely for her mistake.

 _I must say, I'm_ so _sorry, young man_ , the letter (once it had been decoded) read. _I thought that girl surely was real. Well, that is, she was real – she was human, of course – but not_ our _real. Not A.N.R. But we won't be fooled next time. No, I'm going to think of really_ hard _questions._

"I did it anyway," Dimitri sighed. "I wanted her to be you so badly, I let myself think she _had_ to be."

Then Franziska had shown up, and Dimitri's heart sank. He knew, from one look into this perfect stranger's eyes, that she wasn't Anastasia.

She'd cried and insisted she was a Romanov, even as he dragged her back to the train station to find her own way, begging to stay with him, but his grief and anger at his own stupidity had made him deaf to her pleas. He never learned what happened to her, and for that did feel a little bad. Sometimes he wondered if poor, misguided Franziska had believed her own fiction and was nearly as much of a victim as himself.

"I was broke," Dimitri explained next; "I spent the last of the money from the Romanov jewels I hid under that tree – spent it trying to get her here." His cheeks colored. "Only to see for myself she wasn't you."

"Couldn't you have gotten a job?"

"Anya, I _tried_ – they weren't easy to come by."

The job he managed to get, one he was less than thrilled with, was a temporary stint as a cook's assistant in a brothel.

"And that's where I met Irina."

Anya's mouth went agape. "Irina was a _whore_?"

"This _surprises_ you?" Dimitri snapped. "Have you _met_ the woman?"

"Were you always mean to her?"

"Nearly always," Dimitri admitted; "but she was mean right back – she was just better at hiding it from others. She _can_ seem sweet when she wants to; they taught her that trick at the brothel."

When his time cooking in the brothel kitchen ran out, Irina had sought him, knowing he would be starving on the streets.

By this time, she'd gotten herself into trouble – pregnancy was against the boarding rules of her brothel. Her father, a wealthy merchant in Moscow, somehow managing to keep hold of a fat wallet despite the revolution (many of his contemporaries demoted to broom-pushers at best), had once promised her a large inheritance, following her marriage to a suitable husband.

But, of course, the money would be withheld if she never married, or if her father found out she'd been living a debauched life.

Together, Dimitri and Irina had staged an elaborate ruse. A fake wedding, with false witnesses, and a so-called priest whose father owned a canning factory. They'd then taken the money back to Saint Petersburg and opened their hostel, which Dimitri insisted upon calling _The Sunbeam_ , in Alexei Romanov's honor.

Their sham marriage proved to be a bitterly unhappy one. They disagreed frequently and fought shamelessly.

"It wasn't like when _you and I_ quarrel," Dimitri felt the need to assure Anya. "It was all to hurt one another."

"How did you hurt each other?" Anya asked.

"She started a rumor – I'd done something to upset her first, but I don't recall _what_ – that I was..." He made a face and did a short rolling motion with his hand. "You know, like your Uncle Petya."

Anya's brow crinkled. "Like my Uncle Petya, how?"

"Not interested in women."

"My uncle wasn't interested in women?" Off topic, but her curiosity was piqued.

"You didn't _know_?" This surprised Dimitri. "Why did you think he lived on the other side of your Aunt Olga's palace?"

" _No_." Anya's face momentarily resembled a cat that has swallowed something odd but not entirely unpleasant. "That explains so much."

"It really does, doesn't it?" Dimitri agreed, sliding back on topic.

That was when Dimitri had begun threatening Irina. His favorite threat was writing a full confession to her father, and it worked every time. Irina didn't want to take a chance that Dimitri meant it – though she was never sure he _did_ – and lose everything.

"But _how_ ," was Anya's final question before the matter was put to rest and they resumed their relationship and plans to go to Paris, "did Franziska know about you? I burned my diary – there was no other record..."

"That was Vlad's fault, though I don't blame him," Dimitri groaned, knowing his friend had only been trying to _help_. "I think he inadvertently put the idea into her head and she ran with it – having amnesia as an excuse, she didn't need to know _much_ about me.

"She seemed to know a lot of little things from our shared childhood. Claimed it was flashes of memory that seeing Vlad again had brought back. It wasn't until much later that I realized most of it was stuff Vlad was actually _present_ for and might have been trying to prompt her memory with."

"That doesn't explain the feet or the ears, though," Anya noted, a little gloomily. "Does it?"

"No," said Dimitri, pensive. "It doesn't."

* * *

Irina was having tea with her best friend Daria – who had, for once, forgotten her beloved sock puppet at home – in a room directly below Dimitri's.

"Why're we in here?" Daria had demanded, choking on the dust in the seldom-used parlor. "Most of the furniture is covered up and it's so _dusty_."

Irina shushed her. "Dasha, I told you, I'm trying to _hear_! I was hoping Anya would be gone before he got back." Still, there was _no way_ their waterlily would forgive him for what those photographs had implied – Irina was fairly certain Anya would still storm out in a rage any second, that her plan would have still worked. "Wait, I heard a creak just then. Do you think it was the door?"

Daria flushed scarlet. "There's more noise now, and it doesn't sound like the _door_." Giggling madly, she added, "I don't think she's leaving."

Pouting as she brought her teacup to her lips, Irina snapped, "Oh, _shut up_ , Dasha!"

Because she'd heard it, too.

And it was _not_ the door.

It was the unmistakable sound of vigorously jolting bed-springs.


	40. The Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I apologize in advance for any spelling errors I might have missed (the spell-check feature on my word processor was being a pain when I edited this).

_The Wedding_

The long, delicate fabric swirling about her ankles and the gauzy train sweeping the floor in a circular motion, Anya twirled in the dress she was to wear for her wedding.

Off-white with a pale rose-pink train, this dress, though simplistic in design, was rich in texture and understated elegance.

She had to admit – a twinge of sadness brought on by nostalgia over this irreversible change – Dimitri had certainly come a long way since the first dress he had ever bought her; that blue _circus tent_ he'd purchased and proudly presented her with on her eighteenth birthday.

Twirling one final time (knowing dizziness would soon bring on the need to call it quits), Anya grinned at Dimitri, who was sitting at the edge of the bed, bending over to tie his bootlaces.

"Well," she prompted, "what do you think?"

Lifting his head and grinning back teasingly, he twisted his mouth and said, "Not bad."

Anya rolled her eyes, then turned to the narrow, full-length mirror he had brought in from the storage room so she could see what she looked like.

For a moment, she stared, and her blue eyes widened. Something about the narrow wooden frame and the vertical-lined seams of the dress made her appear slightly taller and thinner, and for that one glance, before her eyes concentrated properly on what they were seeing, she'd seen her sister Tatiana in that mirror and, by extension, her mother Alexandra.

She had never thought before now that she looked so very much like her mother, but for a second there, she'd seen it.

"Are you all right?" Dimitri asked, concerned.

Smiling again, a little strained this time, the joy not quite reaching her watering eyes, Anya nodded. "I was just remembering, that's all."

He didn't ask what – or who – it was she was remembering. Perhaps he didn't _have_ to – perhaps, in the one teasing glance he'd given her before returning to the job of tying those laces up nice and tight, he'd seen it, too.

* * *

Checking his wristwatch, Dimitri cursed under his breath. "If that priest doesn't show up in _five minutes_ ," he hissed, "we're going to convert and become Roman Catholics. Maybe _their_ priests can show up on time when it actually matters."

Raising her gloved hands and lifting her veil, in order to shoot Dimitri a look of withered annoyance, Anya sighed, "Will you calm down? Don't be so dramatic. We are not _converting_."

Dimitri groaned, tugging anxiously at the rather stiff jacket of his dark blue suit. As long as he had known this – rather persnickety, if truth be told – priest, the man had possessed the world's most inane internal clock. It was exhausting keeping appointments with the man, knowing one second over the allotted time would mean you missed him entirely. And now, the one time he was desperate to be on time – when they had a train to catch and board (and not completely legally, either, unless they really _did_ take up with the Russian Ballet Company, which seemed unlikely, since he could only _just_ dance without stepping on Anya's toes) after this ceremony concluded – the priest apparently decided it would be hysterical to give him a heart attack and keep them waiting. _Perfect_.

In his defense, when the priest finally arrived, a little over six minutes later, he was out of breath and looking dismayed and rumbled.

"Thank God," Dimitri muttered, his heartbeats resuming their normal rhythm again as the skinny, bearded man walked through the church doors.

"I beg your pardon, my children," the priest said, smoothing his robes and stationing himself in front of them. "After being unfairly harassed by a member of the Bolshevik party, I was waylaid by a most ungodly young woman trying to bribe me not to perform any marriage ceremonies today."

Anya, her face still covered by her veil, turned to Dimitri, shortly whispering, "Do you think it was Irina?"

Gritting his teeth, he growled, "Oh, I have _no doubt_."

"This insistent she-devil was accompanied," the priest continued, his face resembling that of a nursery-aged child forced to swallow a big spoonful of castor oil, "by a most disconcerting lady with a sock puppet."

So Irina had tried to sabotage them again. Big surprise. At least, as with _most_ things she had done in her mess of a life, she hadn't succeeded. There was still enough time, and with any luck they would make their train, keep their heads down, and be across the Russian border as a blissfully united husband and wife before they knew it.

The priest, recovering himself, took a deep breath, clapped Dimitri on the shoulder, then turned to Anya. "Ah, the _bride_."

Dimitri nodded in what was probably supposed to be a modest, demure manner but looked much too overjoyed to pull it off.

Lifting her veil again to peer out at the priest, to see (as the gauzy fabric somewhat prevented) what sort of person this was about to unite them, only for the poor fellow to take one look into her curious eyes and begin clutching his heart.

"He's going to faint on us!" Dimitri complained, certain they'd miss their train if the priest, now slumming over the back of the nearest pew, chose this exact moment to go into cardiac arrest.

Anya, her veil completely thrown back by this point, tried to reach for the priest to help lift him onto his feet again.

"Your...highness..." the man wheezed out, plainly distressed.

Dimitri had to put his fist in his mouth to stifle a curse. The priest had _recognized_ her! Those Romanov eyes had given her away. God only knew where this man had seen those eyes before – a postage stamp, in person at a parade years before, on a box of chocolates; it could have been _anywhere_. The faces of the tsar's children used to be everywhere, even while they themselves were confined to the walls of the Catherine Palace, trying to keep their brother's condition a secret from the Russian populace.

" _Please_ ," Anya begged the man, holding onto his arms and not letting him sink any lower to prevent his imminent groveling. "Please don't."

When she let go of him, he brought the required two fingers and thumb to his forehead and crossed himself vigorously. "God preserve me, I had no idea."

Looking over her shoulder at Dimitri, Anya whispered, "We don't have much time."

"He is taking you out of Russia," the priest realized, enraptured. "For your safety."

"Yes," she told him.

Dimitri grunted impatiently, and she shushed him before returning her full attention to the distraught priest.

"Tell me, you precious ghost-child, is this a marriage of choice or convenience?" The priest's voice had gone shaky.

" _Trust_ me," Dimitri blurted, his arms crossed, "it's anything _but_ convenient." He could hardly have picked a more _inconvenient_ woman to fall in love with, to pledge himself to – but there was no helping that. Not back during the revolution, and certainly not _now_.

Anya told the priest, in a somber voice very unlike her usual playful tones, "We've waited a long time for this, to be a proper husband and wife – and not as patiently as we ought to have." Taking one of the priest's hands in her own, she added, "Please tell me you understand."

His mouth forming an O as he arched an eyebrow, the priest looked past her to Dimitri with a critical gaze, as if any defilement of the daughter of the tsar, given the implication his intended bride had just made, was entirely _his_ fault.

Dimitri shrugged and suddenly became extremely preoccupied staring at a crack on the far wall.

"Come now," the priest gave in, pulling his hand free from Anya's in order to pull her veil back down over her face. "There will be witnesses to your wedding, your imperial highness, and the less that get a good look at you and succumb to their emotions as I did, the better."

* * *

In the light of the shimmering candles they both held, Anya had to struggle against an almost riotous laugh trying to force its way past her tightly sealed lips. For the small concealment it provided, she was _immensely_ grateful for her veil, certain that – if she _did_ slip up and laugh, and he _saw_ it – Dimitri wouldn't be able to hold a straight face, either.

She had found herself remembering the night she'd first met Dimitri – when he was just a frightened boy and she had suggested having him put in a madhouse. She wondered, briefly, what opinion her eight-year-old self would have formed of this moment. Certainly, she had not been in love with him all the way back _then_. And yet, she did feel, overcome with love in all its varying forms – charity, friendship, and romance – for this man standing before her, that she had indeed loved him forever; even then. Perhaps she just had not _known_ it. Was that possible? Well, wasn't _anything_?

The priest made the sign of the cross while holding their rings, blessing them, then exchanged the rings between Anya and Dimitri three times before allowing them to take their permanent places on the third fingers of their right hands.

Then, with the gentlest of touches, the priest linked their hands together, declaring that they were now one.

As a set of garlands made from myrtle leaves and sparsely interwoven with thin silver threads, joined together by a long white ribbon, were produced for the Crowning, Anya wondered what Dimitri thought of their koumbaros being complete strangers picked out by this priest.

It couldn't be helped, of course, for there was no one else to be had; but it was still bitterly sad to think there were no true well-wishers they could have shared this moment with – that the pair of people holding the crowns over their heads while the priest recited were nameless faces they would doubtless forget after today.

At least Dimitri didn't _look_ upset; he appeared as contented as she _felt_.

And for that, she could be grateful. How many Romanov brides had stood in her place, years and years in the past, being married to somebody they hardly knew or even disliked? Her own poor aunt, she imagined, now that she knew the truth of it, couldn't have been pleased to be wed to Uncle Petya, given that he would never be able to be a proper husband for her.

In a sudden moment of sad clarity, it occurred to Anastasia that – if neither of the revolutions had ever occured – and things had continued on as they always had, her parents, while not forcing her to marry somebody she despised (they had never been like that) could still have refused to allow her to marry Dimitri.

Olga had once loved a man named Pavel, and _they_ hadn't been allowed to marry. Their parents had ended up helping arrange his marriage to another. Would Dimitri have become her very own Pavel, under different circumstances? Had Olga herself suspected as much? Perhaps that was why she had been so understanding of Anastasia's – admittedly foolhardy – romance; why she had been so willing to sacrifice and cover for her.

She wondered what her Papa and Mama would think of them marrying now, in this new order of things, former princess and kitchen boy though they were. She liked to think they'd be pleased, because they loved each other so much and he was devout. Anya tried to summon their spirits there, in that church, looking on with proud smiles as they were united, but couldn't quite manage it. Her beloved parents were no longer part of this world, and their reactions, whatever they would have been, were lost to time and space, and thus meaningless.

The crowns were swapped over their heads three times, and a chalice was then brought out for their Common Cup.

This went well, save for the fact that when Dimitri swallowed too quickly, a gulp of holy wine went down the wrong way and the priest had to momentarily stop reading aloud from the book of Matthew so that Anya could pound him on the back.

One of the koumbaros snickered.

Gone slightly red in the face, Dimitri held up a hand apologetically, coughing a couple more times and taking up both his lit candle and Anya's hand again, and the priest resumed his recitial.

When he finished, closing the Bible, the priest led them around the altar three times, telling them they were taking their first steps together as man and wife.

"You must always," he told them, "walk in unison from this day – let nothing prevent that. The weakness of one will be compensated always now by the strength of the other – remember that each day from this."

As they stood before the small group of witnesses and the koumbaros, the priest proudly proclaimed, in Dimitri's general direction, " _Be thou magnified O Bridegroom, as Abraham, and blessed as Isaac and multiply as Jacob. Walk in peace and work in righteousness, as the commandments of God_." Then, in a slightly softened voice, but still clear enough for all present to hear, he said to Anya, " _And thou O Bride, be thou magnified as Sarah, glad as Rebecca and multiply like unto Rachel, rejoicing in thine own husband, fulfilling the conditions of the law, for so it is well pleasing unto God_." Then, to them both, louder and clearer still, " _Na zisete!_ " May you live.

No sooner was that final blessing spoken than a gunshot echoed from outside.

" _Nyet_!" Shrieking in terror, Anya almost dropped her candle in a panic (luckily, the nearest of the two koumbaros took it from her before she burned anything down) as she threw herself into Dimitri's arms.

"Dusha, it's all right," he whispered as she clung to him, locking her arms around his neck and burying her face in his shoulder. "You're okay."

A terrified middle-aged man burst in, breathlessly informing the priest that a group of Bolshevik officers were outside and had just shot the hapless groundskeeper for trying to prevent them coming in during the ceremony.

Breaking apart, her veil having fallen off during her panic (though somehow she'd kept hold of her myrtle-leaf crown), Anya and Dimitri gaped at the priest in shock, their eyes wide with terror.

A few of the witnesses started to duck under the pews. One older woman screamed loud enough to have made a dog's ears bleed.

"Quickly now." The priest grabbed the newlyweds' hands, guiding them behind the altar and through a small antechamber leading to a backdoor. "Out this way. You both get on your train, leave this country, and _never_ look back." Leaning forward, he kissed Anya on the forehead. "Long life, your highness."

"They'll come after us," Dimitri stated nervously.

"I'll hold them off as long as I can," the priest promised. "Please, take the grand duchess and _go_."

Blanching, Anya shook her head. So many people had already suffered and died for her, she couldn't let this innocent priest, this man of God the Bolsheviks would never respect, let alone _spare_...

But Dimitri, his grip on his bride's hand vice-like, was already pulling her down the narrow, slippery stone steps and towards the road that would take them to the station, giving Anya no chance to protest or turn back.

Another shot rang out – this time from _inside_ the church.


	41. Crossing The Border

_Crossing The Border_

_Nine Years Earlier..._

Shivering in her hard iron bed, the girl with no name yanked the covers up to her chin, only to uncover her feet. They felt as if they were encased in blocks of ice!

She hated this hospital, so cold and sterile, always stinking of chemicals. How she missed the smell of her sisters' perfumes! She had never realized how homey those scents, sparely used though they'd been, had made their Siberian prisons seem in comparison to this antiseptic _nothing_ of a smell.

It had saved her life of course, this place, but what was that worth now?

A week ago, back when she was first admitted, she'd held to a stupid hope, probably brought on by feverish delirium. She'd hoped that _somehow_ Dimitri and Lili would know she was here – that they'd come for her and take her away before too many questions were asked. She could tell the doctors Lili was her mother, if they pressed the matter; she was about the right age.

But as the agonizing days had passed, her head actually rather clear when she wasn't suffering from one of her episodes of hysteria, the girl's heart sank.

They didn't know.

They _couldn't_ know.

And they were _not_ coming.

She was completely _alone_. Her family was _dead_ , a fact she kept forgetting when she fell asleep at night to the almost-rhythmic coughs and moans of the other patients, only to remember again with an ugly _thud_ booming in the back of her head – just like one of the guards' ricocheting gunshots – each morning.

She cried a lot, something the nurses attributed to shock.

The fact that she screamed bloody murder every time an overhead light-bulb made a popping noise when it blew out only supported this seemingly simple diagnosis.

Now that her wounds were healing, however fragile her mind still might be, they would want her to move on – they would need her name, for the record, which they'd scribble down on a pad of paper fastened to a clipboard, and then she'd be put out.

She'd begged them not to wash her corset – knowing what they might find, what they'd already come _so close_ to finding when they had to cut it off her – and the kindest of the nurses, only a year or two older than the girl herself, had consented to put it, unexamined, into a locker until she left and could take the filthy, bullet-plugged undergarment away with her.

At least what remained of the jewels (the pearls were ruined, but many diamonds were doubtless unharmed), would help pay her way from here to wherever it was she would need to go.

Without these jewels, she would indeed be desolate. Poor Mama had been right about that.

The kindly nurse and a slick-haired man in a white coat with pale, ice-blue irises, who the girl believed was a student under one of the doctors here, approached her bed with the dreaded clipboard.

"Your name?" the man asked point-blank.

"I..." Tears flooded her eyes as she folded her arms over her sore, bandaged chest – a protective move she'd been doing involuntarily ever since that horrible night, whenever she felt threatened or afraid.

"Don't be frightened," said the nurse, more gently. "It's all right – you're safe here. Your name is confidential – whoever shot you will never know you set foot in this hospital."

Safe, they said. Well, she didn't _feel_ safe.

Saying _Anastasia_ , when so many in this ward had doubtless heard her screaming Maria and Alexei's names during her fits... They would have to be idiots not to put the puzzle together if she gave them the final piece. She might as well sign a death warrant.

And they no longer believed she didn't remember what her name was – they were convinced her memory was _fine_ , even if the rest of her was a mess.

Alexei had called her Ana. She could give them a common diminutive of that.

" _Anya_ ," she rasped out brokenly. "My name is Anya."

* * *

Wincing in pain as she bent low to take her corset out of the bottom locker, the girl pressed her hand to her badly bruised abdomen.

"Anya," a voice behind her said.

She ignored it, nonreactive, focused wholly on the task of getting the corset without bumping her head in the process.

More urgently, "Anya, in future, make sure you learn to _respond_ to the name you give people – you'll only betray yourself otherwise."

Clutching the now-retrieved corset to her racing heart, the girl whirled around and found herself face-to-face with the young, kindly nurse.

" _Anya_ ," the nurse said again, brow raised pointedly, her voice higher and more emphatic.

This time, the girl responded. "Yes?"

Shaking her head, the nurse sighed heavily. " _Good luck_."

* * *

_Present_

" _Anya_."

Asleep across one of the cushioned seats in the train compartment, the woman who had gone by that name for nine years moaned, rolled over, and put an arm over her face, still not waking.

"Hey, come on, we've got to go." Someone was shaking her, gently but with unmistakable urgency.

She stretched out her arm, almost knocking her husband in the face by accident as her eyes snapped open.

Two fundamental facts hit Anya full-force at the exact same time. One, Dimitri's face, which had calmed considerably as the hours had rolled by since the disastrous Bolshevik invasion that followed their wedding ceremony, was lined afresh with anxiety. Two, the train had stopped moving.

She sat up, still in her wedding dress, not so fresh and clean now – the bottom of her rose-pink train rather muddy and torn from the race to the station – and looked around the silent compartment.

No one else was there except for the two of them.

"What's happening?"

"Bolshevik officers just stopped the train and boarded." Dimitri grimaced. "Three guesses who they're looking for."

"Did Irina know what train we were leaving on?"

He shrugged exasperatedly. " _I_ didn't tell her – but she could have found out."

Anya didn't doubt it. Nor did she doubt that, even if they didn't have a proper lead, the Bolsheviks wouldn't have any problems stopping _every_ train leaving Russia and hunting through each compartment relentlessly if they thought a Romanov – or a pretender they needed to make an example of – might be escaping.

Snatching up her myrtle crown off the compartment floor where it had fallen when she dozed off hours earlier, accepting the mercy of oblivion gladly over the conscious guilt of how she'd endangered that priest and those witnesses, she took Dimitri's hand and followed him out of the compartment.

"The _baggage car_?" she wrinkled her nose when she realized where they were headed.

"Did you have a better idea?"

"We'll _freeze_ in here," she pointed out, shivering already as he closed the door behind them. It was probably several degrees colder inside this meat-locker of a baggage car than _outside_ , given that it was still summer.

"We can thaw in Paris." He took his suit jacket off and put it over her shoulders.

"What about _you_?" she asked, pulling it around herself and willing her teeth to stop chattering.

"I'm not that cold," he lied, nonetheless blowing on his hands and shaking rather violently.

At least, if nothing else, the train had just started moving again. Maybe that was a good sign – maybe it meant the Bolsheviks had _left_.

Staring at her husband with a mixture of gratitude and annoyance, Anya noticed for the first time that he was still wearing _his_ myrtle-leaf crown on his head, and smiled, despite their worsened situation.

Then, sucking her teeth, Anya suddenly turned and began moving suitcases from their places, diligently looking under them for labels.

"What are you doing?" Dimitri asked, forehead crinkled.

"We sent our things ahead," she reminded him, pushing a particularly heavy suitcase out of the way with a grunt. "Your greatcoat would be in our luggage."

Spreading his arms open and gesturing, a touch condescendingly, at the sheer _size_ of the car, Dimitri declared, "You're never going to _find_ it."

Anya motioned with her chin at a single suitcase in a space she'd just cleared. "Found it!"

" _Touché_ ," muttered Dimitri.

Fumbling with her numb-from-cold fingers, Anya undid the latch, flipping the suitcase open. She took out his tatty greatcoat (she was almost positive it was the same one he'd had in Tobolsk, that her mother had sewn jewels into, which explained the torn lining) and threw it at his head.

Then she fished around the suitcase some more until she found the catch to open the little compartment she'd hidden her music box and damaged key-pendant inside of.

For protection against the music box breaking while their luggage was transported, she wrapped it inside a beaded, white-fur muff Dimitri had bought her in spite of the fact that she'd pointed out the weather was much too warm for a muff. He'd argued that the blue beads were almost exactly the same color as her eyes, and so he was buying it for her, end of story. She'd decided to think of it as an early wedding present and ultimately accepted it gratefully, aside from sticking out her tongue at his back while he had the storekeeper wrap it up.

Dimitri had only _just_ gotten his arms through his greatcoat sleeves when they were both startled out of their thoughts by the sound of impending boots.

Voices of Bolshevik officers rang out, unnervingly close to the door they'd entered the car by.

"Has anyone checked in _there_?" a gruff voice echoed. "They could be hiding with the baggage, no?"

"Oh, _shit_." Snatching her hand – pulling her up off her knees where she'd still been knelt beside their open suitcase – and dragging her to the other side of the car, Dimitri struggled to roll the heavy outer door aside, revealing a blurred landscape. "We're gonna have to jump."

Anya gawked at him, clutching the soft muff in her free hand a little more tightly, those little blue beads digging into her palm. "Did you say _jump_?"

"It's all right – I've done this once before."

"After _you_ , then."

Letting go of her hand to slip his arm around her waist, he shook his head. "Together."

"Count of three," she prompted.

" _One_." He secured his grip on her waist, lifting his other hand and holding up a finger.

Inhaling, she breathed, " _Two_."

" _Three_." Holding up three fingers now, he flung himself – and by extension _her_ as well – off the side of the car and into the nearest ditch, just as the Bolshevik officers came smashing their way through a stack of luggage, pistols drawn.

Luckily, there were dense piles of newly fallen pine-needles that, while they prickled like sitting on a porcupine's backside, still managed to largely cushion their fall.

More luckily still, the train had been moving too fast for the Bolsheviks to fire or come after them without leaping off at the same perilous high speed themselves.

Covered in stray needles and replacing their fallen myrtle crowns on their heads (it was easier than carrying them for however long they needed to walk), Anya and Dimitri must have looked like a willowy dryad couple haunting the woods along the train-tracks hand-in-hand.

The only things to spoil the illusion of other-worldliness about them in this eerie moonlit scene set somewhere near the Russian border were Dimitri's endless complaints; muttered asides consisting of several different variants on, "I _hate_ trains – remind me _never_ to get on a train again."

* * *

A couple of days later, somewhere right on the other side of the Romanian border, Dimitri and Anya checked – with the very last of the spare rubles they had on their persons, the rest having been spent on a pair of bikes, which was quicker than walking, though Anya had been having a less than easy time pedaling in her now-hopelessly-shredded wedding dress – into a somewhat dirty-looking boarding-house room and bolted the door securely behind themselves.

Anya sat by the window, her clenched fists resting briefly in her lap, and looked out with a tense, lost expression on her face.

"Ah, yes – _yes_ , this will do nicely." Dimitri flicked on the single bare light-bulb, sending roughly a half dozen roaches scattering, and took in the room with an expression of resigned distaste that didn't match his aforementioned statement in the least. "Well," he retracted, "at least we can probably get a bath here – if we can get someone to bring in hot water." He lifted his foot and studied the grimy floor underneath it. "And maybe some disinfectant." Okay, maybe _a lot_ of disinfectant...

"I'm just glad it has a _lock_ ," Anya told him wearily. "With a proper bolt."

"We're safe now," Dimitri tried to reassure her, though he knew he wasn't doing a very good a job of it and felt guilty. "We're out of Russia."

He didn't blame her if she was still terrified, after everything. Not to mention the fact that spending the majority of their wedding night in a dark wood, afraid even to shut their eyes for fear a trigger-happy Bolshie might spring out at them at any given moment, probably hadn't helped her nerves.

It certainly hadn't soothed _his_ any.

Truthfully, he was just relieved she hadn't had one of her screaming episodes – she'd mercifully managed to stay in the present these past two days.

If anything, she'd been uncommonly quiet. Which was, of course, rather worrisome on its own merits.

"Olga could have been the queen of Romania," Anya blurted, rising from her chair and turning away from the window as if she couldn't bear to look any longer. "Did you know that?"

"I _did_ hear something about her and Prince Carol," Dimitri admitted, unlacing and kicking off his boots, the soles of which had worn so thin from their long trek here they'd developed holes. "Whatever happened with that?"

Anya smiled, lifting the tattered, mud-and-needle-stained wedding dress off over her head and draping it over the back of the window-side chair she'd just vacated. "She didn't like him, and told Papa so – that put an end to it."

Not wanting to think about the disconcerting fact that – if Olga _had_ accepted Prince Carol as a suitor and married him – she might still be alive, he set it from his mind and refused to dwell on it any further.

It was simply too painful.

Clearing his head, Dimitri lifted his gaze and took in the welcome distracting sight of his wife in her underthings. "Do you need some help unlacing that corset?"

Her tense expression faded, replaced by a playful one he hadn't seen so much as a glimmer of for well over forty-eight hours.

"I _do_ , actually," she said, gnawing suggestively on her lower lip and leaning against the closest bedpost. "But I _think_ , Dimitri, you have ulterior motives."

He put his hand to his heart in feigned innocence and stepped forward. "What, _me_?"

"Oh, do you _deny_ it?"

Sliding his fingertips along the dust-caked staylace and slowly beginning to unloop it, he bowed his head and kissed her throat. " _Nyet_."

* * *

Dimitri had almost dozed off in the ensuing silence afterward, when Anya suddenly blurted, "Are we going to ride our bikes all the way to Paris?"

He fought back a yawn, turning on his pillow to face her. "We'll catch a boat in Germany." With what money, he didn't know, but that was his plan nonetheless.

" _Oh_. Then we're biking to Germany?" she pressed.

"No, Dusha." He was growing frustrated but was firmly determined not to take it out on her. "We're taking a bus." _Somehow_ , they would – even if they had to barter their bikes for the fare.

"A _bus_ ," she sighed tiredly, before snuggling closer to him and closing her eyes, seemingly reassured enough to finally welcome sleep. "That's nice."


	42. Dimitri & Anya Have a Disagreement

_Dimitri & Anya Have a Disagreement_

Having secured a ride on the back of a friendly farmer's truck that would take them halfway to where they would meet the bus, the sun shining overhead in a clear blue sky, Anya and Dimitri should have been in relatively good spirits.

But, life being life, they were not.

Behind their forced smiles whenever they made eye-contact (each wanted to reassure the other that they were perfectly fine and content, thanks very much – in other words, both were shamelessly _lying_ ), tempers were beginning to boil like an overheated samovar.

They had already sold their bikes to an elderly couple at the Romanian boarding-house for the needed bus fare. Dimitri's share of the money was in his greatcoat pocket; Anya's in her muff with her music box and pendant. They couldn't spend any of it, or else they would have no way of paying their fare (the whole point of selling the bikes in the first place), which unfortunately meant they couldn't afford transportation _to_ the bus – several miles away – or, more importantly, food (blind charity being their only way out of both dilemmas).

The farmer had generously given them a small bowl of stroganoff for the ride, in addition to allowing them to set up a makeshift table on the bed of his truck using a piece of plywood over a broken crate – provided, of course, they didn't disturb his allegedly prize-winning pig, their big fat pink fellow passenger on back.

The problem was that the tiny amount of stroganoff was barely enough to fill _one_ of their bellies, and Dimitri refused to eat any of it, insisting Anya have the lot to keep up her strength.

At first Anya had taken up the wooden spoon and brought it to her mouth without question. She didn't particularly _care_ for stroganoff – never had, really – but at this point food was food. She also, in her hungry state, had slipped back into a habit from years ago where she simply assumed she was going to be served before Alexei's servant – the tsar's children always ate before the help.

What snapped her out of it was the sound of Dimitri's stomach growling loudly enough to be heard over the truck engine.

Dropping the spoon back into the bowl with a _plop_ , she shook her head. "You have to eat some."

"I'm not hungry," he said stubbornly. "My stomach is full."

 _Yeah, full of_ air _..._ Anya slid the bowl across the plywood to him. "I'm not buying it."

"I'm motion sick," he lied. "I'd only vomit it back up."

She was wholly unmoved.

His stomach growled again. "I'm _full_ ," he repeated, sounding like he was trying to convince _himself_ as much as his wife.

"Oh, you're full of it, all right," Anya muttered.

Dimitri's gentle, self-sacrificing expression hardened into one of anger. His resolve not to take his frustration out on her might have been weakening. "What was that?"

"You heard me." She pouted and folded her arms across her chest. "You know what, Dimitri? I'm _not_ eating it."

"Anya, _I swear to God_..." he growled, his irises darkening almost two full shades. "I am not in the mood to humor you."

"How _dare_ you talk to me like that!" she snapped, more than a match for his threats – even unspoken ones he was clearly trying to smother, if only his face didn't betray him so readily. "If you think I'm just going to sit here and gorge myself and watch you _starve_ –"

His dark eyes narrowed. "You don't _get_ it, do you?"

Anya was taken aback by the extent of his fury – she thought for a moment he was going to flip over their makeshift plywood-and-crate table. If he could have stood up in the moving truck-bed, she honestly believed he might have jumped to his feet and kicked something.

"Get _what_?" she blurted, aghast.

"This isn't a day trip through the slums of Europe," Dimitri cried, his voice cracking. "This..." He gestured at the bowl on the plywood. "This is our _life_ – the only life I was able to give you, and it's a damn poor one."

"It's okay," Anya said, reaching over the plywood to touch his arm consolingly.

They would, she was certain, think of _something_. Didn't they always? Besides, they finally had each other. Even when she was mad at him, like today, she nonetheless felt her whole body shiver with delight every time she looked over to see he was still beside her. That alone was very nearly all the reassurance she would ever need.

"No, it's _not_! Stop patronizing me – I've had _enough_!" He shifted away from her, brushing her off with such harshness that hot tears immediately began filling her now-distressed eyes. "You were a pampered grand duchess, so you don't understand that this doesn't end in a few more days – the boat we're going on isn't the bloody Standart!

"And when – what am I saying, _when_! _If_ we make it to Paris, we aren't automatically going to be smothered in diamonds or sipping champagne. We'll be lucky if Vlad and Sophie don't slam the door on our faces and release the hounds."

"Vladimir and Sophie keep _hounds_?" Anya snorted, arching an incredulous auburn eyebrow.

"I don't _know_ ," Dimitri snapped, waving that off.

"What _kind_ of hounds?" she asked, her tone cheekily demure, deliberately to antagonize him as revenge for what he'd just said to her. "The sort they use on racetracks, or for hunting?"

"Anya..." He rubbed his temples, his face quickly turning red. "Will you just keep to the _point_? Do you think you could possibly do that for me this _once_?"

"It's an incredibly _stupid_ point," Anya barked, "but if you _insist_ on having this nonsensical argument, _tak i byt_." So be it.

"I think," she continued, before he could get another word in edgewise, "you're being a big baby, and you're making me very angry because you _know_ better!

"I am _not_ some spoiled grand duchess. After all that time imprisoned in Siberia – which you obviously don't remember very well, Dimitri, or you wouldn't say such things – I lived like a wandering peasant for nine years! There _is_ no class difference between us now!

"It's _you_ who doesn't get it – I'm not a dainty princess you have to look out for." She lifted her right hand, her wedding band glinting in the bright, late-morning sunlight. "I'm your _wife_ , and I didn't walk halfway across Russia without learning to defend myself."

"Were you defending yourself when you jumped into the Neva with rocks in your corset?" he spat bitterly. "Who had to save you?" He pointed, rather pompously, at his own chest. " _Me_!"

The tears were streaming down her face now.

"How do you think I feel about my skills as a provider when my _wife_ is running around in her wedding dress like Miss Havisham day after day because I can't even afford to buy her new clothes?"

The tears fell faster, but Dimitri was on a roll now, letting it all out without considering – even for a second – the dire consequences of his hurtful words.

"And do you think it's _easy_ for me, worrying that at any moment you could go off the rails screaming and flailing and crying out for your dead family?" he exploded, throwing his hands in the air and consequently nearly tumbling off onto the road as the truck hit a bump, needing to grab onto the wooden siding to steady himself and getting a palm covered in splinters for his efforts. "All I can give you is a pathetic bowl of charity food, and you won't eat it!"

Anya's tear-stained face was closing off rapidly; he had gone too far.

"So," she said, her voice dangerously quiet, "you finally said it – I'm a liability to you."

Although his chest was still heaving, Dimitri was beginning to come down off his pent up frustration high, his conscience stabbing him like there was no tomorrow. "Anya, I didn't mean it."

"So marrying me," she went on, wiping at her eyes with the back of her wrist, "that was, what, you feeling you _had_ to take care of me? _Had_ to look after me so I didn't try to hurt myself again? Did you even really still _want_ me at all?"

"Of _course_ I did," he amended, too late, the damage already done.

Without another word, Anya picked up the bowl of stroganoff and dumped its contents out next to the joyously oinking pig, who ate it up without hesitation.

* * *

"Anya, how many times can I say _I'm sorry_?" Dimitri groaned as they walked along the hot, dusty road after being dropped off by the farmer.

Refusing even to _look_ at him, Anya marched ahead with her lips pressed tightly together, hiking up the torn skirt of her dress to gain speed.

Groaning, he increased his own pace, struggling to catch up.

He hadn't meant to hurt her; he knew he shouldn't have said what he did – that he was _beyond_ out of line. Dimitri had only been cross and hungry and frightened for them both. For _her_ , especially. He had faced his own near-starvation before and come through; but, while she might well have had many hungry nights over the past nine years, he hadn't been _present_ for those. He had never seen – and never _wanted_ to see – her going hungry or not having clean clothing. Even in Tobolsk as a political prisoner she'd at least had that much.

More than anything, he hated himself for being the cause of her poverty.

She could say what she liked about them being equals, it still didn't make _sense_ to him. In Dimitri's eyes, Anya – Anastasia Romanov – would always be a princess. A very rough-and-tumble princess, perhaps, but a princess nonetheless. The torn clothing and hunger-pinched face didn't make her look any less regal to him. Nor could a mere set of matching rings on their fingers convince him that their lives were worth the same.

Years before, he had promised Alexei that if anything happened to him he would take care of his favorite sister.

So far, Dimitri believed he was an utter failure in regards to keeping that promise.

For what purpose had he pulled this beautiful woman from the Neva? So she could suffer, penniless at his side?

Panting for breath as he managed at last to plant himself in front of her (now needing to walk backwards, as she refused to stop merely because he stood in her way), he exclaimed, "Anya, please, you have to _talk_ to me!"

Still nothing.

"I was wrong, I'm an idiotka, what else can I possibly _say_?"

She stopped; he tripped and fell on his back in the road.

" _Ouch_ ," he moaned, sitting up.

Squatting beside him, Anya took her share of their bike money from inside her muff and placed it on his stomach.

"I don't want your money," he said automatically, reaching to give it back to her.

"It's _our_ money!" she shouted. "There isn't _yours and mine_ anymore – what part of that is so hard for you to get through your thick skull?"

 _Honk_. "Get out of the way, you morons!" Another honk. "Or did you _want_ to get run over?"

Dimitri stood up and brushed himself off, pocketing the money so they didn't lose it, though he still intended to return it to her later, and looked around for the source of the hubbub.

It was an older man – wearing a trench coat, brown fedora, and oversize spectacles – at the wheel of a Model T.

Initially, this gentleman seemed irate, but his expression softened considerably when he properly noticed Anya, pale and in her tatty dress, signs of recent tears represented by two dirty lines running parallel down her cheeks.

"Are you in some sort of trouble, Fräulein?" He rolled the Model T to a stop, tipping his hat to her. "Is this man bothering you?" He pointed at Dimitri, his gaze behind the shiny spectacles accusatory.

Dimitri opened his mouth to tell the man to mind his own business and leave them alone, except Anya chimed in first with a polite request for a ride. She spoke in solid, barely-accented German, having picked up on the man's thick accent and – apparently – guessed where he was from.

Dimitri didn't know exactly what they were saying, German not being a language he remembered a lot of from Alexei's lessons. Still, it was fairly easy to guess from context. Anya was telling this man that they were all right – the man with her who had fallen into the middle of the road was her husband being silly, not a stranger harassing her – and explaining that they were trying to catch a bus to Germany.

Seeming pleased that they were enroute to his own home country, the man nodded enthusiastically and allowed them to get in the back.

Dimitri settled into his seat, proud of – and grateful to – his wife for getting them a lift and saving them possibly _hours_ of journeying to meet the bus on foot. " _Spasibo_." Thank you.

"For _what_?" Anya raised her brow at him icily, plainly still cross and hurt, the short interruption in their dispute having changed nothing between them.

"Getting us off the road," he said simply, feeling foolish.

"Don't thank _me_ ," she said quietly, turning away from him. " _I'm_ not driving. Besides, I'm only a liability you have to look out for – I could start screaming for my dead family any second. _Remember_?"


	43. Rainbows & Steamship Cabins

_Rainbows & Steamship Cabins_

The stormy silence between them following Anya's last jab lasted throughout the rest of the ride in the Model T.

Anya said goodbye to the German man in the fedora; Dimitri didn't bother, he just sort of grunted his thanks as the car disappeared down the road after dropping them off.

They still didn't speak to each other when it came time to pay the bus fare.

Dimitri of course had the money Anya had thrown at him when he fell in the road, and ended up paying for them both, walking ahead without looking back at her, just assuming she'd follow right behind him.

Which was what she _started_ to do before a misunderstanding caused the bus driver to think Anya was attempting to climb to the upper deck (the only place seats were still available) without paying her fare.

"I'll have that fare now, if you please, Missy." The driver blocked her way, holding out his hand and wiggling his fingers.

"My husband already paid for me," Anya argued, her voice hoarse and weak.

The driver narrowed his eyes skeptically. "And just where _is_ this alleged husband of yours?"

"He's right up there." She pointed to the upper deck – Dimitri still hadn't turned around, and thus hadn't realized she wasn't with him. "He just paid you."

"Missy, listen, I wasn't born yesterday." The driver sucked his teeth. "Pretending to know the person ahead of you and claiming they already paid your fare is the oldest trick in the book." He eyed her torn dress with even more skepticism. "Clearly you're having a rough time of it, and I'd rather not call the police over this matter, so if you'd kindly step aside now..." He flicked his fingers in a shooing motion. "Go on now, back to whatever asylum you crawled out of."

Anya began to tremble, her head spinning wildly. Exhausted and hungry and frightened, she thought she might faint.

She _could_ yell and try to get Dimitri's attention, but there was no guarantee he'd hear her above whatever din the other passengers on the upper deck were making, and the driver would only accuse her of trying to cause a scene.

Lifting her watery, unfocused eyes to the deck, she could see Dimitri looking around in confusion now – he'd finally noticed she was gone. It was about _time_!

Come _on_ , she thought, frustrated; look _down_ and _say_ something!

" _Anya_?" he called, looking nervously over the side of the deck, the evident panic in his voice a little hard not to be moved by.

Sighing, she lifted her hand and made the smallest of waving gestures.

Elbowing another passenger out of the way, Dimitri hopped down the steps to where the driver stood.

"Wait, wait," he panted, rather out of breath when he reached them, "hold on – she's with me."

"I _told_ you he was my husband," Anya couldn't resist snapping, making a point of holding up her right hand so the driver couldn't avoid getting a good look at her wedding ring.

"Sir," the driver sighed, cutting his eyes at Anya and focusing on Dimitri, "this woman claims to be your wife – that she came here with you."

"Well, _of course_ she's my wife!" Dimitri glared at the driver. "Who said otherwise?"

Checking the fare again, and finding the amount for _two_ in the crumpled notes Dimitri had handed him before boarding, the driver blushed apologetically.

"An h-honest mistake," he stammered, tipping his hat in a – much too late – attempt to show Anya some civility.

Dimitri motioned for Anya to go up the steps _in front_ of him this time, still glaring furiously at the driver despite his wholly transformed demeanor. "Don't let it happen again."

"You must have _loved_ that," Anya muttered, playing awkwardly with her muff in her lap as she took her seat. "Once again, Dimitri the martyr straight out of a Tolstoy novel has to rescue the pathetic princess who can't even get on a bus without causing a catastrophe."

"Anya, can you just _stop_ trying to pick fights with me?" Dimitri huffed, sitting down beside her. "There's only so many times I can say I'm sorry and have you ignore me."

"Always about _you_ , isn't it?" Anya growled. "How _you_ feel about our circumstances, how I burden _you_ – how _you're_ sorry."

"I _am_ sorry!"

"You're sorry you _said_ it – not sorry you _meant_ it."

"I _didn't_ mean it." He inhaled sharply through his nose to prevent himself from raising his voice on the crowded upper deck. "I was upset; I shouldn't have taken it out on you."

No, he shouldn't have. Anya stared at him for a long time without saying anything.

Sighing, he looked straight ahead.

After a few moments, Anya followed his lead and did the same.

* * *

A mile outside of the German border, the sky overhead darkened, gray – almost black – clouds gathering in thick clusters. Most of the upper deck passengers carried umbrellas they'd already opened in case of what was – with increasing certainty – coming.

Dimitri and Anya had no umbrella, of course. Dimitri envied the people on the lower level, protected by the roof. Once again, he was feeling frustrated and inadequate.

What sort of husband was he, when he couldn't even keep his wife out of the rain?

Perhaps, he hoped, dismal though the prospect of this wish coming true seemed, the rain wouldn't fall until much later. Perhaps, this once, fate could be halfway decent and not let Noah's flood descend on them after the worst fight they'd ever had.

It was _such_ a cliché – a newly married couple thinking things couldn't possibly get any worse and finding themselves in a downpour. In a novel, Dimitri would have – and had, years before – scoffed at it.

How contrived, how stupid.

Things like that never happened in real life. Weather did not match the mood of a pair of lovers – if it had, the sky would have been dark from the moment they got up that morning.

The universe could not possibly be out to get him, much as it felt like it.

Rain did _not_ fall simply for dramatic effect.

Except, apparently, sometimes it _did_.

A thunderclap sounded, making Anya jump (for a horrible moment, Dimitri thought he might lose her to her terror of the past, that the thunder would remind her subconscious of a gunshot, but she was not triggered, just startled). Then, came the rain.

Water poured from the sky, drenching the few unfortunate souls who hadn't raised their umbrellas.

Dimitri, thinking fast, lifted his greatcoat over them both, and this seemed to work all right at first, except for the existence of a group of holes that had worked their way through the lining and the outer fabric, only tearing all the more rapidly as the weight of the rainwater collected.

The first – humorously audible – _sploosh_ of escaped water hit Dimitri on the head and dribbled down his forehead to his chin and into his collar.

Anya had to bite back a smirk in spite of herself.

A second later, a hole in the seam over her own head busted and she was soaked, too.

Glancing at each other, their shoulders shaking wildly, they began laughing so hard they could scarcely breathe.

Dimitri slapped his knee and had to wipe tears from his eyes; he was certain the other passengers – a few of which were staring at them critically, or so he imagined, from under their umbrellas – thought he was a headcase in addition to a bad husband, but he still couldn't stop chortling like there was no tomorrow.

And Anya's case of the giggles seemed just as endless.

"I'm still mad at you," she reminded him, through the words didn't seem _quite_ so devastating when they came out in breathless huffs between bouts of contagious laughter.

"That's all right." He smiled, reaching over to tuck the damp red-gold hair hanging in front of her face behind her ears so that he could stare, for a reassuring moment, into her blue eyes.

Yes, he knew she was mad, and he understood. That knowledge didn't lessen the sweet relief rushing through his veins and the sudden nonsensical belief that perhaps they were going to be okay after all.

Nothing had changed, yet – paradoxically – in that one moment of shared laughter, that one idiotic tension breaker, _everything_ had.

* * *

In a rundown cafe in Germany, Anya and Dimitri took a pair of iron-hard seats by the window. It was still raining outside, and they watched the water droplets glittering in the weak grayish light like tarnished silver on the pavement.

When the waiter came, Dimitri – willing himself to keep his head held up high despite the embarrassment – asked only for two glasses of water. They couldn't afford to order anything they'd have needed to actually _pay_ for.

"We've been traveling all day," Dimitri explained, as evenly as he could, while the waiter wordlessly sized them up, looking judgmentally at their dirty, shredded clothing and waterlogged hair.

The waiter then walked away, making a snide comment under his breath. Dimitri didn't know what it was, and Anya refused to tell him until later – perhaps rightly concerned that Dimitri would lose his cool and punch the waiter in the jaw if he knew exactly what the unfriendly German man was saying about them being 'damned filthy Russian refugees'.

While they waited for the glasses of water that would hold their seats for as long as they could drag out the act of drinking them, they discussed how they would get money for the boat to France.

"I was thinking," said Anya, a little brokenly, "there's always..." She took a deep breath, blinking back the irksome tears that refused to stay away. "There's always the music box – it _is_ valuable, and it's what Grandmama would wa–"

" _Nyet_!" Dimitri was adamant. "You're keeping that."

That damned music box had not survived everything it had been through – carried everywhere by Anastasia throughout her childhood, then dragged from place to place in the revolution and eventually smuggled in his greatcoat pocket, remaining magically intact through _two_ train jumping incidents – only for them to sell it now.

He wouldn't allow it – he simply _wouldn't_.

Dimitri knew how much that music box meant to his wife. It was the only thing she had left from her beloved grandmother. In a way, it was the only thing she had left _period_ – they had, really, no other material possessions, having left most of them behind on the train.

Anya was right, of course, about it being valuable. It would fetch an _insane_ amount of money, even with the key being in such poor shape.

But _still_.

Sighing, Anya had a second idea, less profitable, but nonetheless a decent last resort. "The muff, then." She stroked it one more time for good measure before removing the music box and key from inside and sliding it across the table to Dimitri. "I know it was expensive, so..."

Dimitri groaned. He was reluctant to sell the only thing he'd given her which she had been able to keep this long, something he knew she considered a wedding present; but better that than the music box, or their wedding rings. There _was_ always the silver thread on their now rather sorry-looking garlands, but collectively, picked off, it wouldn't fetch much. Maybe not even enough for _one_ steamer ticket.

The beaded muff, remarkably still clean given all it had been through, would be a far superior bet.

Giving in with the smallest of dismal nods, Dimitri put his hand over the muff in agreement, still feeling rotten about it.

In the sweetest tone, Anya whispered, "You can buy me another one in Paris."

Although he knew the unlikelihood of that, given how poor they were, the words did their job and momentarily reassured him. There would always be other things – other pretty items he could buy for her in the future, provided they came into some kind of income between now and then. But this was what needed to be done _now_ for their survival, for them to press on and finish the journey they'd started.

This was only a bump in the road.

Outside the window, the rain let up and the clouds parted. Dimitri swore he saw a rainbow spreading its beautiful band of rich, bright colors against the pale blue sky.

Another cliché, but he didn't mind.

* * *

Selling the muff enabled them to purchase two tickets to secure a narrow, cube-shaped cabin aboard the steamship _The Tasha_ and a simple meal at a dock-side stand that sold hot potatoes with fixings (cheese, crumbled meat of some kind, and butter).

Though nowhere near full, Dimitri felt somewhat better after swallowing the last bite of his potato and – more importantly – watching Anya relish hers.

Undressing in their cabin that night, getting ready for bed, Dimitri was rather awkward. Despite their returned compatriotship in the cafe, and his new-found reassurance that they would make it through this, there was still a lingering coldness between himself and his wife. His words on that truck-bed had hurt her deeply, and he wondered if she'd ever again be able to look at him the way she had before he said them. Even believing with all his heart that she forgave him – or, would soon, if she hadn't already – didn't alleviate the feeling that he'd broken something precious. Something he couldn't put back together or replace.

There was only one – fairly narrow – bunk in their cabin. Dimitri hoped Anya would ask him to share it with her, despite the limited space, giving him an excuse to hold her and stay close to her through the night, but she didn't. Even when she saw him fixing a place with extra blankets on the floor next to the opposite wall under the cabin's single porthole, she still didn't suggest they share the bunk.

So they went to sleep separately, with weak, dispassionate goodnights and exhausted sighs.

Dimitri tried to stay awake until he heard Anya doze off, but didn't manage it. He was tired physically and mentally and his body quickly drifted off, not returning into consciousness until a scream startled him back into coherence.

" _Anya_?"

She was sitting up in her bunk sobbing, pulling her knees to her chest.

"I loved them so much," she whimpered.

And just like that, he knew. She'd had a nightmare. A nightmare about her family.

"I _know_ ," he whispered, going over to her bunk and sitting down beside her. "I know, Anya." For a long moment he was silent. Then, "I loved them, too."

Weeping harder, she turned and put her arms around his torso, clinging to him as he stroked her hair and held her tightly.

"I keep seeing their faces," she murmured into his chest. "It's that night, in the basement – they're so scared."

He wanted to tell her how he often saw their petrified faces in _his_ dreams, too, even all these years later. But he hesitated. In many of his nightmares, the most horrifying, they weren't petrified with fear – they were already dead. The guards were taking them off the back of the truck and dousing their naked bodies in acid while he forced himself to watch, trying to find Anastasia among the corpses.

And while he had told her almost everything – finding Alexei who then died in his arms, his descent into poverty seven years prior, how and why he'd taken up with Irina in her schemes – there were two things he kept to himself.

One being that ugly scene that haunted him, her family's naked corpses being disrespected like that.

The other was what had happened to Lili – each day she didn't ask, he felt relieved.

So, instead of all that, he simply comforted her with, "It was a nightmare; it's all right, you're safe now."


	44. Paris, At Last!

_Paris, At Last!_

They arrived at an ornate house with small pink roses growing in rectangular window-boxes and a tall sundial on the front lawn that gleamed like a fine white-marble pillar in the late afternoon sunshine.

Pushing open the iron gate and stepping onto the cobbled path leading up to the front door, Dimitri felt his empty stomach lurch. He was going to be sick. What if Vlad turned them away? He had no money for a hotel – if they weren't welcomed here, they'd be on the streets tonight. And, from there, how would they ever be allowed anywhere _near_ the dowager empress?

Anya was putting on a brave face, but there were already dark rings appearing under her tired blue eyes and the torn wedding dress was starting to hang on her rather funny thanks to split seams in rather unfortunate places.

He had a dark, unnerving thought. Maybe he should have insisted, even against her wishes, she stay in Russia. It was a dangerous place for a Romanov, but she'd survived there nine years, and if he'd still been pretending to be married to Irina, he would have had _her_ money to help look after Anya. Not to mention the income from _The Sunbeam_ that had been his own personal share.

Except, in that situation, they would have been far from free. His and Anya's relationship would have been nothing but an open secret swept under the rug whenever the Bolsheviks reared their ugly heads. Even if they never got found out, it still would have been an ugly existence for her as a nobody's part-time mistress. She would have had to watch him flirt with Irina – who knew how often – to keep up the charade. More than that, he would have made an dishonest woman of her – their vows not meaning much in light of the new order of things in Russia. Better that he had married her and brought her here, away from all that.

Reunited with whatever distant relations had survived the revolution, she just might be able to move on, to find herself again.

Still, he didn't like this. He didn't like how much hinged on one potential act of charity. They stood, even now, with everything to lose.

His heart thudding in his chest, he rapped his knuckles on the door and held his breath.

The door opened, a wide-set fat man with graying hair and familiar eyes stood there, blinking at them. He didn't notice Anya at first, focused on Dimitri, trying to place him.

"Hey, Vlad," Dimitri said weakly. "I'm sure you don't recognize me–"

A large meaty fist swung at him, which he had to dodge. Finally having placed him, Vlad recognized his visitor all right.

" _Dimitri_! How dare you ignore my advice and bring that Franziska woman to Russia and then just show up here seven years later, and think–" He stopped, mid-scolding, noticing Anya standing behind him. "Good _heavens_!"

Not without a notable smirk, Dimitri gestured back at her. "May I present the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nicholaevna."

"I don't _believe_ it!" Vlad's countenance changed completely, from sullen and gravely insulted to downright _giddy_ , as he leaped over the threshold, grabbed Dimitri by the waist, and swung him around in a backward embrace. "You _did_ it! You _found_ her! You have found the heir to the Russian throne!"

" _Vlady_!" called a high-pitched voice from inside. "What's all this hue and cry about? A woman can't get her beauty rest if..." Sophie's blonde head appeared in the doorway. "Oh, my goodness, _visitors_! Well, this _is_ unexpected!" A friendly soul, she waved them in without recognition, or even – for a few moments, anyway, before her fashionable nature could bear it no longer and her small nose wrinkled involuntarily – regard for the sorry state of their clothing. "Come in – come in, everyone!"

"Sophie," Vlad began to explain as they entered and a maid in a short black-and-white uniform closed the door behind them. "This is Dimitri – the man from Russia we corresponded with seven years ago."

Her facial expression changed from joyous to pitiful. "Ah, _such_ a sorry story that was, young man – all those bad feelings over an impostor."

" _Sophie_ ," said Vlad again, more slowly, shifting his gaze to Anya pointedly. "Don't you see who's with him?"

Taking a proper look at Anya's face, Sophie recoiled and gasped.

" _Well_ ," she spluttered out when her voice returned, "she certainly _looks_ like Anastasia." Under her breath, a little more cautiously, she added, "But so did many of the others."

"Sophie, when I was a little girl, I came here to visit my grandmother – you saw me a few times then, do you remember?" Anya asked her.

"I most certainly remember little Anastasia running around the palace gardens – and little Marie, too."

"Do you remember any specific object Anastasia carried wherever she went?"

Sophie's mouth twisted pensively. "Well, now, yes, I _do_! Come to think of it, very much so!"

"What was it?"

"Why, it was a little music box – small enough to fit in the palm of her hand."

Drawing out the music box, Anya held it aloft. "I believe this was it?"

Sophie's hand flew to her mouth, her chubby knees giving way and making her sway slightly. "Your highness!"

"It's all right." Anya reached out and steadied her. "Please don't do that."

Dimitri couldn't help grinning at this scene, his eyes growing a bit wet. If Cousin Sophie, who had barely known Anastasia, could react this way, he could scarcely imagine the joy this would bring the dowager empress – the healing this would bring the White Russian community at large.

"Look at you!" cried Sophie, shaking her head. "Just _look_ at you – torn dress, skin and bones! And _what_ has happened to your _hair_?"

"I _know_ ," sighed Anya, giggling with relief. "You can't _imagine_ what we've been through to come here. We were chased by Bolsheviks at our wedding, and we had to jump from a moving train!"

"Damn Bolshie upstarts," muttered Vlad, sucking his teeth in disgust. "They think they need to control _everything_!"

Sophie raised a single golden eyebrow. "I _say_ , Anastasia, did I hear correctly? You had a _wedding_? You've _married_?"

Nodding, Anya lifted her right hand and gestured for Dimitri to lift his, too.

"How _romantic_!" Sophie clapped her hands together, gone rather starry-eyed. "Of course, you do realize that – if there is a counterrevolution – despite being a commoner, Dimitri could possibly..."

Dimitri turned green in the face at the very suggestion. Sophie didn't even need to _finish_ that fading sentence for it to be horrifying. Him, a _tsar_? After what happened to Nicholas, that was the very _last_ thing he ever wanted to be.

"Naturally it would make more sense if _you_ were in charge, dearie, being of the bloodline," Sophie prattled on, "but Catherine the Great was the last – her son went and ruined it for the rest of us.

"You know, I don't exactly _approve_ of those suffragettes tying themselves to railroad tracks, or whatever it is they were doing. I forget the details. But, regardless, in a man's world, one certainly sees where they get off. Women are terribly underestimated. That is why I love Paris – at least the French seem to be having a turnabout by and by.

"If Mother Russia was _smart_ , she'd learn to do it, too!" Vlad chimed in, well-meaning in his outburst but also admittedly unhelpful.

In a quiet but sure voice, ignoring Vlad's – rather moot – interjection, Anya said, "There won't _be_ a counterrevolution, Sophie, not _ever_ – the old Russia is gone." Looking at Dimitri, she added, "We just want to live in peace now."

He couldn't have agreed more. If it were possible, and not blatantly amoral at best, he would have had no problem secluding Anya away someplace safe and never speaking to anyone who might have recognized her again. Let them be private citizens, safe and in love, with the past tucked away where it could only hurt them when the memories were at their sharpest. But Anastasia Romanov deserved her family, and her grandmother deserved – at the very least – to know her granddaughter survived the slaughter in Yekaterinburg.

"Yes," sighed Sophie, a touch patronizingly, hooking her arm through Anya's. "That's only natural, of course. But where _are_ my manners? Follow me to the parlor and we'll have some tea at once!" To her husband: "Vlady, my _darling_ , be a crumpet and have Mariette bring in the silver tea-set and put out the good china."

"Of course, my decadent pastry," he replied amiably, kissing his wife passingly on the arm before leaving the room to do so. "I'll see to it at once."

It didn't in the least surprise Dimitri that most of Vladimir and Sophie's terms of endearment involved foods. Anya seemed amused by it, though – he could tell she was struggling to hold back laughter at their exchanges.

Later, she confessed to him that whenever their hosts were 'talking mushy' she was never sure if they were referring to each other or to literal cream puffs.

* * *

While they dined on fruit and French delicacies (the names of which Dimitri could barely pronounce, no matter how many times Sophie corrected him) and drank endless cups of black tea, Sophie explained the complicated situation of getting Anya in to see the empress.

"But she's Anastasia," Dimitri protested flatly, in between bites and gulps. "What else matters? As soon as she _sees_ her–"

"That is the problem exactly," sighed Sophie, stirring her own tea, looking downhearted. "There have been so _many_ false Anastasias, the poor empress now believes there isn't a real one – that her favorite grandchild is dead, there never was any hope, and all her offered reward did was bring a flock of play-actors and charlatans to her door." She gently placed the spoon down beside her teacup and brought the rim to her plump, pink lips. "She says she _closes_ that door now."

Incensed at the unfairness of it, after coming all this way, Dimitri was about to say something that was, perhaps, uncharitable towards Anastasia's grandmother.

However, Vlad cut in first with a solid point. "Dimitri, please _think_ how she must feel," he reminded him gently. "Remember what that woman from Berlin's not being Anastasia did to you." He lowered his brow. "Now imagine that happened over and over again."

The thought _did_ make Dimitri sick to his stomach – pity and outrage twisting into a complicated emotion he had no words for and could only express by visibly blanching.

"But I still want to see her," Anya protested in a soft, almost childish whisper, _her_ face now very pale as well. "I've _missed_ her."

Vlad's expression became one of pity. "Well, _naturally_ you've missed your grandmother, child." He shifted his gaze over to Sophie. "Darling, certainly you can think of _some_ way to arrange a brief interview?"

A small grin crept onto Sophie's face. "I don't suppose, Anya, that you or your husband like the Russian ballet? The empress and I just _love_ the Russian ballet – we're going to a performance of _Cinderella_ two evenings from tonight.

" _If_ you happened to be there, and presented yourself outside our box during intermission..." She winked in her direction. "I would be remiss in my duty to the empress if I did not permit the entrance of so distinguished and unexpected a visitor."

Anya nodded excitedly, leaning over the tea-set to serve herself a second helping of strawberries and cream.

"But," Sophie added, "you cannot go in _that_." She eyed the tattered wedding dress, practically falling off Anya's left shoulder, and made a tisking sound. "I suppose I will have to play fairy godmother to my own little Cinderella before then – _shopping_ tomorrow, you and I." To her husband, in too loud a whisper to be missed, "And Vlady, _do_ see that Dimitri at _least_ buys some new shoes – only just off the train Russians wear such shoes as he's got on."

Self-conscious despite the fact that he literally _was_ a 'just off the train Russian', Dimitri's cheeks reddened and he tried to tuck his feet – and, by extension, the worn-out boots on them – a little ways under the plush, fringed chair in which he was seated.

* * *

"Shopping in _Paris_ ," Anya declared dreamily as she slipped Sophie's far-too-large loan of a nightgown over her head. "Can you _believe_ it?"

On the other side of the guestroom, unlacing and kicking off his offensive boots, Dimitri forced a smile, knowing his wife was much more excited about the prospect than he was.

All it meant for _him_ was being dragged around by Vlad so they could window-hunt for less embarrassing shoes for him to wear when they met the empress. Not exactly his idea of fun.

But to Anya, having lived as she had for nine long years, with nothing – save for that muff he'd gotten her and then had to sell to bring them here – as luxurious as fancy shopping, he could somewhat understand the appeal.

All the more so given the fact that, even as a princess, Anastasia had rarely set foot in a shop, or known what anything cost.

Alexandra had often picked out Anastasia's clothing herself, and it usually matched whatever her siblings were wearing, as Alexandra had been _very_ fond of dressing all her children alike.

It must have still been novel to Anya, all things considered, to go into a store with another lady and pick out things she personally liked or found fashionable.

At least, she sounded happy, no longer hungry and resentful and hurt. That was a good start. Something about this magical city of lights might start fixing whatever had gone wrong between them, and that gave him a glimmer of hope.

He hoped his good behavior now could _show_ how he felt, because he didn't think he could find the words to _say_ it. How to tell her that _of course_ he wanted her – _of course_ she wasn't a burden? _Of course_!

Anya might have complicated his life, but she had also saved it. Dimitri had felt himself slipping more and more every day he'd spent with Irina. Those had been seven years of purgatory and numb suffering. He hadn't known how much longer he could go on that way without completely dying inside. At times he had suspected he was _already_ dead deep down in his marrow.

The only thing that brought him remote satisfaction was lighting candles on the Romanovs' birthdays. Once, during a dark moment, he had considered hanging himself (not unlike somebody else he'd known a long time ago who'd been unable to stand post-revolutionary life without the Romanovs and given up), only to glance at a calendar and realize the next day was Tatiana Romanova's birthday. He had felt it his duty to the girl who had written _Blue_ on that note, and to her sister who he loved, to stay alive one more day and light that candle.

And, having stayed alive, he eventually got his reward when he pulled the woman who – unbeknownst to him at the time – was his once and future wife out of the Neva.

But Dimitri had no way of telling Anya just how much she meant to him. The closest he was ever able to manage was that endearment he used with her so often.

Saying she was his soul was an understatement, perhaps, but it at least came _somewhat_ close to the truth he couldn't articulate.

How he could have been so stupid and insecure to say what he had said to her on that truck-bed... The memory made him shudder. He pretended it was only a shiver brought on by a slight draft in the room as he changed into the incredibly baggy striped pajamas Vlad loaned him.

After brushing out her long red hair with a few rushed strokes, Anya threw herself into the middle of the large canopied bed and sighed indulgently. "I can't remember the last time I was _this_ excited for morning to come."

Swallowing, Dimitri motioned at a divan under the reflective bay-window across from the bed. "I can sleep over here, if you want."

Propping herself up on her elbows, Anya shook her head at him. " _Nyet_."

He did his best – and was not particularly successful – to keep his face unmoved, to fight back the hopeful expression trying to worm its way out.

Closing her eyelids halfway, she stretched out her hand and motioned for him to come closer. "I want you with me."

And, just like that, Dimitri knew he was – for the _most_ part, anyway – properly forgiven. This was the emotional manifestation of the rainbow he'd seen in Germany. They had found themselves, at last, safely on the other side of the storm.

His limbs automatically relaxing almost into a jelly-like state with relief, he climbed into bed beside her and circled her waist with his arms. Pulling her close, he pressed her back and shoulder-blades against his chest and made quick work of burying his face securely in the nape of her neck.

Gingerly, with a fading touch as light as a passing butterfly's wing, Anya bent her head forward and kissed one of his knuckles before guiding his hand a little higher up from where it was currently positioned.


	45. Doubts and Death

_Doubts & Death_

Handing over an armload of gloss-coated shopping bags to the doorman, Anya entered the fancy two-level restaurant. She stopped in front of a mirror in the lobby to examine her reflection.

She was wearing a lavender Chanel suit and her newly-plaited red hair was woven into an intricate bun. The sophisticated young woman looking back at her with sparkling blue eyes almost felt like a stranger.

A little self-importantly, she rolled back her shoulders and touched the back of her hair to make sure it was wasn't coming loose.

Sophie's reflection appeared beside her own in the mirror, an amused smile playing on her face. "Anastasia, darling, there's _nothing_ to primp – you're twenty-seven, in the most beautiful city in the world, and you're in love; there's simply no improvement to be made."

Behind them, on the other side of the glass doors they'd entered by – completely unheeded, as they were too busy in their own little world to glance back – the doorman was struggling with the weight of their bags, swaying in this struggle to hold onto the extra five or six Sophie had dumped on him after Anya wandered inside.

"Oh, it's not that, I've just never..." Anya trailed off, not sure how to explain to Sophie that, despite being a grand duchess, she had never had these kinds of luxuries before. Her Mama might have been empress of all Russia before the revolution, but she had not tolerated vanity in her 'girlies' beyond allowing them to occasionally indulge in their favorite perfumes, and then only if they paid for them with their small allowances or received them as gifts from visiting relatives.

"There's no need to explain," Sophie laughed, though Anya thought she didn't really understand still – that she probably believed Anya was vain _because_ she was born a princess, not because she hadn't had a chance to be so back when she was one. "But we really _must_ hurry to the dining room, or our men will be wondering if we've forgotten to meet them for the promised luncheon."

"You really think I look all right?" Anya asked, turning away from the mirror. "The shorter hem doesn't make my waist look like a barrel?"

" _Trust_ me." Taking her arm, Sophie laughed, "When he sees you, Dimitri won't know what to do with himself."

With a flattened _thump_ , the doorman finally fell over, succumbing to the weight of the bags.

Glancing over her shoulder at the unexpected sound, Sophie sighed, "Would you look at that? Probably intoxicated, and it's barely one o'clock – so hard to get good help these days." Then, "Well, never mind that now."

"But shouldn't we help–?" Anya began, as Sophie yanked her into the lobby's adjoining antechamber. " _Whoa_. Okay. Or not."

Seeing them through the thin, partially frosted pane that separated the antechamber from the high-end main dining room, Vlad lifted his hand and waved.

Because she was still facing Sophie, Anya realized Dimitri probably hadn't noticed her yet, and turned around to look at him through the pane.

Catching sight of her, he immediately stood up, pulling out the chair beside his own.

Entering that dining room, Anya truly felt, for the first time in a decade, like royalty. People were whispering as she passed them, and she wondered if rumors about who she was had somehow leaked – Sophie was a dear, and wouldn't have _purposefully_ told anyone who their guest was, but those large pink lips of hers weren't exactly tight. She might have said something without thinking that set off sparks in the local community of Russian refugees. Vladimir didn't strike Anya as someone good at secret-keeping, either.

Between the two of them struggling so pitifully to keep it in, it could have – rather easily – gotten out.

To calm her nerves, she kept her eyes on Dimitri. He was smiling and she smiled back as she took her seat and let him push her chair back in as she unfolded her napkin, placing it on her lap.

He had cleaned up pretty well himself during his own morning shopping excursion with Vlad. He wore a new suit of grayish-blue – very simple in style though obviously well-tailored, it brought out the warmer hue in his brown eyes, which she liked – and his hair appeared freshly cut.

Sophie and Vlad began amiably chatting about the menu, only stopping to occasionally pepper their conversation with complaints about their sore feet and comments on how otherwise pleasant their respective mornings had been.

"That sounds delicious, my precious parfait – the chef here should manage that; he is very accommodating. For myself, I'll have the veal," Vlad commented, in response to something Sophie had told him about the long wait at the jewelry store and her desire to have a steak pie, if such could be be procured at this luncheon. "Oh, and you wouldn't _believe_ the fuss Dimitri made about buying a top hat to go with his tuxedo for the ballet."

 _Top hat, eh?_ Anya suddenly noticed that Dimitri's shopping bags were under his chair, as he hadn't known to give them to the doorman and Vlad evidently forgot to tell him.

Quick as lightning, she ducked and snatched the top hat out of the bag. "It's very _tall_ , isn't it?" she teased, making a dramatic show of examining it upside down.

"Give me that!" His voice somewhere between a barely-restrained laugh and an indignant squeak, Dimitri reached to take it back and bury it under his seat again.

"I think," Anya laughed, holding it just out of his reach, "this thing is going to give you an extra foot of height – you'll be able to join the Russian circus if you wear this and heeled shoes at the same time."

"Give it here," Dimitri repeated, looking both ways and struggling in vain to keep a serious expression on his face. "People are staring."

"I'll give it back _if_ you put it on," Anya dared, wiggling her eyebrows at him impishly. "Right here, right now."

"Fat chance."

She shrugged. "If _you_ won't, _I_ will."

" _Jesus Christ_ , Anya!"

Anya had put the hat on her own head, headless of her freshly-done hair she had just fussed over in the mirror, and started mimicking the horrified, slightly bulge-eyed expression on Dimitri's face until he couldn't bite his lip anymore and burst out laughing so hard tears came to his eyes.

Smirking, Anya took off the hat, made a little bowing motion, and handed it back to him as compliantly as if he had just asked for its return that moment.

Vlad and Sophie were chortling on their side of the table, too.

"If I hadn't believed our Anya was Anastasia Nicholaevna before," Vlad said in a low voice, when their table's merriment finally petered out enough for coherent conversation, " _this_ would have convinced me."

Anya only hoped her grandmother, when she finally saw her at the ballet, would share this former imperial court member's confidence regarding her identity.

How could she truly be Anastasia again, after all this time, if her own grandmother didn't recognize her? _One_ Anastasia impostor had almost closed the door to Dimitri's heart forever; what could the countless string of actresses the empress endured have done to the loving Grandmama Anya remembered so well?

Would she still be the same wonderful person who'd praised the picture eight-year-old Anastasia had given her at the celebration for 300 years or Romanov rule?

Or would she be withdrawn and lost? Perhaps as destitute as Anya herself had been before finding Dimitri again? Had _she_ , too, thought of ending it all to be reunited with her lost love ones?

These were not questions Sophie could answer to Anya's satisfaction, nor were they questions she could bring herself to ask the cheerful, seemingly oblivious cousin who was already giving them so much.

She would simply have to wait and see for herself.

* * *

Turning up the sound on the gramophone Sophie had – perhaps mistakenly thinking her guests would be bored up there – the housemaid, Mariette, bring to the guestroom, Anya spun around and twirled her way over to the divan where Dimitri was lounging with one leg up.

"Dance with me," she said.

"Only if you're sure you _want_ me to – I'm a bit tipsy from the wine at dinner," he warned, not wanting her to discount the fact that he was doubly likely to step on her toes in this condition.

Raising her eyebrows, she laughed, "So am I."

"Is that right?" He scooted forward, halfway to sitting up now.

Leaning closer, Anya whispered, "And I'm not wearing a corset under this dress."

His eyes widened slightly – she officially had his undivided attention. "Let's dance."

She let out a _whoop_ of delight and took his hand, pulling him off the divan and dragging him to the middle of the room.

"Anya?" he asked, slipping an arm around her waist.

She took his other hand, allowing him to lead her through a few staggering steps. "Yes?"

"You're happy here, aren't you?"

"Of _course_!" she exclaimed, ducking under his arm and twirling. "How could I _not_ be? We're in a city beyond all comparison – more importantly, we're _together_. That's more than I ever..."

"I know," he cut her off as she slid back into his grasp. "But... What if that's not enough?"

"Where is this coming from?" Concern laced her voice and facial expression; her feet stopped moving in time with the music.

The record playing on the gramophone seemed to have suddenly gotten stuck and was _hic_ - _hic_ - _hic_ ing on an endless loop, but neither of them went to fix it.

"Seeing you here, it's like..." Dimitri tried to find the words. How could he explain the way he'd felt earlier, watching her put away all the furs and jewels Sophie had bought her, knowing those fine, expensive things were only a _fraction_ of what should have been hers by birthright? "This is _your_ rightful place, and sometimes I don't know–"

Anya let go of his hand and placed two of her fingers on his lips. " _Don't_."

He shook his head in a woozy attempt to clear it, to make sense of his scrambled thoughts. "I don't know, maybe it's the wine talking."

"All right." Freeing herself from his grasp and taking a few steps backward, Anya lifted her dress over her head and tossed it onto the divan. She crept forward again and undid a button on his shirt. "What's the wine saying _now_?"

His answer was not in words.

* * *

Dimitri was awoken by a chubby hand shaking his left shoulder. "What time is it?"

"Quarter till seven," said Vladimir's grave voice above him.

A dull pounding in the back of his head, Dimitri groaned, rolling over so that his face fell back into the soft pillow. "Is the house on _fire_?"

"Dimitri, get up." Vlad's tone was no-nonsense. "Don't wake Anya, and come downstairs immediately."

With that, Vlad disappeared into the hallway.

Blinking sleepily to clear the grit from his eyes, Dimitri sat up and looked over at the right side of the bed.

Anya was lying there, deep asleep still, her bare body wrapped in the sheets, and the smallest trace of a smile playing on her restful face. God willing, someday she might pass through _every_ night so peaceful and nightmare-free, waking to beautiful mornings like this one.

But Dimitri was anxious. What could be so urgent – yet so delicate in nature – that Vlad and Sophie wanted to speak to him this early, and _alone_?

Throwing on his clothes (after snatching them off the headboard where he'd left them last night) and haphazardly lacing his shoes, he climbed off the bed and wandered into the hallway after Vlad, who refused to tell him anything until they reached the parlor.

Sophie was seated on the sofa, wearing a large black dressing-gown and no makeup, her eyes rimmed red and a handkerchief pressed to her mouth as she sobbed.

Dimitri glanced at Vlad quizzically.

"It's the dowager empress," Vlad told him, coming over to the sofa to put his arms around Sophie, who began weeping into his neck. "There, there, my pet. It won't bring her back."

" _Bring her_ back?" Dimitri echoed, in a daze. "You don't mean she's...?"

" _Yes_ , Dimitri, the dowager empress passed away last night."

He ran his hand through his hair, pushing it away from his face. "My _God_." Poor Anya. What was he going to _tell_ her? She was expecting to see her grandmother at the ballet, and now... "This is a disaster."

"The poor poppet," whimpered Sophie, loudly blowing her nose. "I can't imagine how she will hold up her head at the ballet now – knowing... Oh, I don't even know how _I'll_ manage it!"

Dimitri's forehead crinkled. "You're still going to the ballet?" And making _Anya_ go? What was _wrong_ with these people? Her grandmother just died – Anya wouldn't want to go to a social event after a thing like that. What they needed to be doing was breaking the news to her gently, consoling her, telling her everything was going to be all right even if they weren't sure it actually _was_.

Vlad once again had to be the voice of reason. "If Anya ever wants to be accepted as Anastasia by the remaining Romanovs, her best bet is attending that ballet performance."

"But without the empress–"

"Her Aunt Olga will be there, in her late mother's box," Sophie gasped out, blowing her nose again. "She'd know Anastasia – she is Nicky's sister, after all."

"Her Aunt Olga is _here_ , in the city?" This was the first Dimitri had heard of it.

"Yes," rasped Sophie. "Her and that new husband of hers, Kulikovsky."

A sour feeling rose in Dimitri's stomach, making him want to vomit. If he told Anya about her grandmother before the night of the ballet, there was no telling what the news would do to her. If she felt unable to make herself go, knowing the beloved grandmother she had come all this way to see would not be in attendance because of an appointment with the undertaker, she might miss out on what Vlad called her best chance to get her remaining family back.

Considering all else his wife was robbed of, Dimitri couldn't let that happen.

He hated to keep something like this from her, but he felt then that he knew what needed to be done. No matter how much it hurt.

So, very solemnly, he told Vlad and Sophie they were not to say a word of this to Anya – not until after the ballet.

"We're going to go through with this as if nothing has changed," he informed them, his jaw set determinedly.

Vlad was shocked. "You've got to tell her."

"Tell me what?" Anya appeared in the parlor doorway, grinning uncertainly.

Dimitri took in the sight of his smiling wife, willing himself not to break down and blurt out the truth. She was wearing one of the new dresses Sophie bought for her, this one a pale pink with sequins on the lacy collar that caught the morning light and made her glow like a newly descended angel. Her unbrushed hair was hanging in long tangled curls, framing her round, impish face adorably.

"Uh..." he stammered, feeling like a lying idiotka, and expecting lightning to strike him any second for it. "How... How beautiful you look."

Anya was a little confused by the random compliment. "Thank you, I guess," she managed, still uncertain, before she noticed Sophie. " _Oh_! What happened?"

"Sophie's had a rough morning," Vlad sighed, his wearied voice a heavy, wet-sounding rumple coming from the deepest parts of his wide chest. "An old friend of hers has passed away in the night."

Crouching and leaning over the arm of the sofa to pat Sophie's plump, trembling hand, Anya said, "How awful – I'm _so_ sorry, Sophie." Then, perhaps thinking it could be a relative, given the number of distantly-related White Russians Sophie spent so much time with: "Anyone I know?"

Vlad's eyes met Dimitri's, silently begging him to just let them tell her, only receiving a head-shake of refusal in return.

"No, my dear," he said, complying with Dimitri's wishes against his better judgment. "Just a very old friend – nobody you would know."


	46. Intermission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: If anyone happens to catch on to my little nod to Eva Ibbotson's Countess Below Stairs in this chapter, yes, that was intentional. I simply couldn't resist. I bloody LOVE that book. It's not actually about Anastasia, but I highly recommend it to any and all Anastasia fans. If you like one, you'll like the other.

_Intermission_

On stage, the ballet dancer portraying Cinderella's prince leaped after a gilded, rose-bedecked prop carriage being wheeled from one end to the other. Looking down, after the carriage vanished from his sight, he discovered Cinderella's lost glass slipper and gracefully bowed to pick it up as the curtain descended.

The audience members all applauded, save for Anya, who was too anxious to remember to clap, even though she'd enjoyed the small portions of the performance her mind _hadn't_ wandered during.

She couldn't stop thinking about how she would be meeting Grandmama again for the first time in years. She wondered if she'd recognize her and embrace her with open arms, or if she would denounce her as a fraud.

Even the fact that she was wearing her very favorite – and grandest – outfit of the lot that Sophie bought during their shopping spree – a strapless, deep blue velvet dress with a glittering sheer train – and was fairly _dripping_ with diamonds and other fine jewels (even her hairpins were embedded with the exceptionally rare Grazinsky sapphires that had only made their way from Russia to Paris by the smuggled desperation of imperial court refugees), gave her no comfort.

What could a beautiful dress and diamond earrings and choker and satin gloves and sapphire hairpins do for her if tonight went badly? Perhaps this ways why Mama always warned them so vehemently against vanity – perhaps she'd known all along how hollow such luxuries truly were, how little they could do.

Anya's heart was pounding in her chest. She'd wrung and ripped her program into tiny pieces, all of which were spread across her lap now.

Leaning over, Dimitri took one of her gloved hands in his own and squeezed. "Come on," he said softly. "I guess it's time."

Anya lifted her free hand, watching, in near dazed entrancement, as it trembled involuntarily. "My hand's shaking."

* * *

Twice, Anya panicked and tried to bolt down the narrow, scarlet-carpeted hallway, and twice Dimitri went after her and dragged her back, assuring her everything was going to be fine.

He was still waiting on God to strike him with a lightning bolt for the sin of falsehood.

It had gotten increasingly difficult to keep the news of the dowager empress dying from Anya, dragging him into almost ridiculous detours away from newspaper stands and forcing him to – in some cases – resort to outright buffoonery. If she hadn't been so nervous about tonight, so lost inside of herself, he was certain she would have caught on – knowing him as well as she did – to the fact that he was deliberately hiding something from her.

He reminded himself he was doing this for her own good, but it didn't alleviate his guilt. Especially seeing the flickers of anticipation on her face that appeared in-between panic attacks.

She wanted so _badly_ to see her grandmother, and she wasn't going to.

He was purposefully misleading her. Was he really any better, in principal, than the Bolsheviks who had told her family they were going to take their photograph before brutally opening fire on them?

Would she ever forgive him for this? Understand _why_ he did it, and not just that he _had_? Or was he idiotically risking all _they_ had – perhaps even their marriage itself, once the trust was leached out of it by this betrayal – for what she _might_ have with her estranged relatives if tonight proved a success?

Approaching the golden, ruby-studded doors leading into Olga and Nikolai's box, Dimitri teetered over whether or not he should go in and announce Anastasia properly.

On the one hand, a princess deserved to be announced when she entered. On the other, if he announced her like a servant now, cementing how the royals would initially view their relationship to each other, he was setting them both up for ridicule when the Romanov relatives discovered that he was Anya's husband.

But surely it would be impertinent of him to just stroll in there, uninvited, _with_ her?

Sophie was in there, too – her place as lady-in-waiting to Olga's late mother meant she had not been allowed to sit in the lower seats with Vlad. So _she_ could intervene if Olga found Anya's entering unannounced to be unacceptable...

His place, Dimitri decided, was out here, waiting.

Anya stopped when he did. "You're not coming in with me?"

"You go on," he told her.

Her gloved hands were at her throat now. "I'm frightened, Dimitri."

"Don't be." He forced a smile. "We'll celebrate tonight on your grandfather's bridge." A reference – of course – to the famous Alexander bridge, one of the most beautiful in all of Paris, named for the husband of her late grandmother. "I'll bring champagne, and we can laugh about this."

Anya took a deep breath, readying herself, and Dimitri expected her to march right on in there.

Instead, she turned, grabbed his face, and kissed him.

"What was _that_ for?" he laughed.

Her lips curled upwards. "Luck."

Willing his mind not to dwell on the fact that he hadn't brought her very much luck _so far_ , he grinned wider and, bending down, kissed her mouth again.

"Well, _good luck_ , then," he whispered, pulling away. " _Dusha_."

"All right." She swallowed and took another breath, this one a little shaky. "Here I go."

Watching the sparkling train of her dress disappear behind the door, Dimitri had a sudden flash of memory strike him, as sharp as the lightning bolt he'd been awaiting since he first decided to keep the dowager's death a secret.

It was of Olga – the woman behind those doors – presenting the Romanov family with the samovar depicting the soulless Baba Yaga.

Only, this time, his thought – recalling those black pools eyes – was not 'this woman has no soul'.

No, this time it was different.

 _This_ time, he found himself thinking: I _have no soul_.

* * *

Feeling like a royal mess, Anya willed herself to start smiling and stop wondering what she would do if this meeting failed, as she paused behind the curtain that separated the viewing part of the box (where Grandmama was doubtlessly watching the play) from the lounging area (made up with sofas and wheeling tea services).

Sophie peered out from behind the curtain and, extending an arm, waved her in.

Anya slid past and took in the scene. Instead of her aged grandmother with white hair and a long expression (the image Anya _expected_ ), there sat a regal man and woman in expensive but oddly simplistic clothing.

The man, his somewhat thinning hair slicked back like a schoolboy attending a recital, wore a diamond watch that caught the light but seemed to have no other extravagances on his person – not even fancy cuff-links. There was something vaguely familiar about him, only Anya did not allow herself time to try and place the fellow, for she had recognized the woman as her own aunt and godmother.

Surprise overcoming any restraint she might otherwise have managed, Anya cried, " _Auntie Olga_!" as if she were still a child.

Aunt Olga turned, seemingly startled, her hand on her heart.

Gawking in amazement, Anya stretched out her arms, offering her hands to her bewildered aunt who stood, very slowly, never taking her eyes off this woman who looked so like her niece.

"It cannot be," she muttered, blinking, her fingertips almost touching the end of Anya's gloves.

Sophie, watching them, was beginning to tear up and needed to dab at her eyes with her handkerchief.

Then, the man stood up beside Olga and it was as if a bomb exploded in the box as he darkly exclaimed, "Well, _of course_ it isn't!"

Pulling her hands back, Olga looked away from Anya and shook her head at the man. "Kolya, _please_..."

Anya knew him now, had finally placed him. _Nikolai Kulikovsky_. Her entire childhood, he had flitted in and out. He was a regular at Auntie Olga's palace. Only, back then, she had not known about Uncle Petya's disinterest in women, and so had not understood this man's role in her aunt's life.

To Anastasia as a child, he had only been the 'good friend' of her godmother. Now she understood he must have been her lover, and was now her husband.

In the olden days, he had been very kind, offering sweets and gentle words to the tsar's daughters, whom he also regaled with stories of his time in the Russian army.

What a _difference_ the years had made in how he looked at her! His contemptuous gaze on Anya was stony, wholly unfriendly, judging her.

"This is just another impostor," Nikolai snapped. "Some foolish girl who has the good fortune to look like your late brother's child. We know the kind. She is after money, Olga, and she'll break your heart to get it."

" _I_ ," said Anya, almost growling, "am not an impostor – I am the grand duchess _Anastasia Nicholaevna Romanov_."

"Oh, how _grand_!" he mocked, while Olga stood there, shell-shocked, saying nothing. "All you Anastasias are very good at saying your name dramatically, aren't you?"

Sophie had put her handkerchief away and was visibly growing nervous – this meeting was beginning to take an ugly turn.

"I don't wish to speak to you if you're going to be rude," Anya rebuked him. "I will speak to my _aunt_ , Nikolai, if you will keep quiet long enough for her to get a word in."

But Olga was no longer looking at her. She had sunk back into her chair, tears streaming down her face, her watery eyes glued to her lap.

"Have you people no shame?" was Kulikovsky's last disparaging remark before he, too, froze her out.

Sophie crept forward and took her arm. "You'd better go."

Anya had never been more confused in her life. Here she was supposed to meet her grandmother, found her aunt instead, and was being hustled away because it had gone poorly.

But how could Aunt Olga be so _blind_? Couldn't she recognize her own niece? Couldn't they speak, even for only a few moments, so that Anya could _prove_ she was not an impostor? And where _was_ Grandmama?

Wrenching free of Sophie, Anya turned and fled the room, stomping out, too mortified even to look back at her weeping aunt.

Outside the doors again, she bumped into Dimitri. "What happened?"

"My Aunt Olga was there," she gasped out, her own tears awash on her burning-red-with-shame face. "She wouldn't even look at me after her husband called me an impostor."

Dimitri took her arm. "Come on, we'll go back in and I'll tell her the truth."

"What good would _that_ do?" she sobbed. "I'm her niece, Dimitri, she saw me more often than Grandmama – she lived in Russia. Don't you understand? If _she_ doesn't know me..."

"I'm not convinced she didn't know you," Dimitri told her, all but dragging her back through the doors. "It's shock, or some misunderstanding."

When she saw them returning, Sophie grimaced but didn't block their way.

Upon reaching the sofa, where Olga and Nikolai were now sitting, comforting each other with their heads bowed close together, foreheads nearly touching, Dimitri cleared his throat.

Kulikovsky glanced up, ignoring Dimitri and frowning at Anya. "Back again, are you?"

"With all due respect, Nikolai Kulikovsky," Dimitri sighed, "get up and stop running your mouth for a moment."

"How dare–" he began before Dimitri, to his – and even Anya's – great surprise, made a move forward as if to physically remove Kulikovsky from Olga's side if he did not rise willingly.

Sophie gasped.

Dimitri ignored her horror and towered threateningly over Kulikovsky until he moved. He then nudged Anya into his vacated place, signaling for her to sit down beside her stunned aunt.

"You can't do this," Kulikovsky told him, daggers in his eyes. "Have you forgotten who we _are_?"

"I can do whatever I want," he sneered. "In case you forgot, there was a revolution – everyone's supposed to be equal. A strange idea for you, I'm sure, but here we are."

Anya was a bit surprised to hear Dimitri, an anti-revolutionist through and through, speak like that, but put it down to integrated habit from nine years of pretending to be exactly the opposite, as well as him using whatever he had – regardless of how little he actually _believed_ in it – to his advantage in this argument.

Kulikovsky was a good man – Aunt Olga, Anya was sure, could not love him otherwise – but Dimitri, she could plainly tell, was vehemently disliking him because of his cold, unwelcoming attitude towards her – his inability to accept her as his niece, Anastasia.

This was a bit like the pot calling the kettle black, perhaps, given how Dimitri himself had reacted to her initial claim after he pulled her from the Neva; but at least it was a hypocrisy stemming from love, not entitled indifference.

Simply put, his heart was in the right place.

"This _is_ your brother's child sitting beside you, Olga Alexandrovna." Dimitri strode over and placed a protective hand on Anya's shoulder. "Can you honestly tell me you don't know it in your heart?"

Olga took another glance at Anya's blotchy face, noticing for the first time that she'd been crying. "Forgive me, young lady, if I upset you before – you have to understand, you are far from the first to make such a claim, but you look so like her..."

"I _am_ her," Anya swore, taking one of her aunt's hands in both of hers. "Maybe I shouldn't have cried out like that... It wasn't meant to unnerve you. I was just _so_ glad to see you. I didn't know you were in Paris; I was expecting someone else. It... It was a shock for _me_ , too."

This surprised her aunt deeply. "You... You did not know I was here...? You did not come purposefully, in order to..."

Anya closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. " _Nyet_ , Auntie."

"Poor girl," sighed Olga. "Even if you are not Anastasia, I feel sorry for you – I can see you have suffered. In one way or another, you have suffered, and I sense it. Some people, you know, you can just look and _tell_ at once. I do not think you came here to trick me."

This proved too much for Kulikovsky, who – having had enough – took a step towards the sofa and shouted, "Is this to be our lot? Some people have rodents or roaches as pests – how I envy them! Are my wife and I to be subject to Romanov impostors forever, now that the dowager has died?"

Crestfallen, Anya slumped, almost sliding off the sofa entirely, her hands letting go of her aunt's and flying instead to cover her mouth as her sobs became full-on wails of distress.

* * *

" _You son of a bitch_ ," Dimitri mouthed to Kulikovsky, before planting himself in front of Anya.

Practically hyperventilating, Anya clung to him at first, holding onto her husband's strong arms as if they were the only things keeping her from falling to the floor and sinking into the center of the earth, the weight of this awful news too much to bear.

Then, disaster.

She met his eyes, and they betrayed him. There was nothing Dimitri could do to stop this. "You _knew_!"

Anger evidently gave her strength again. She rose up, shoved him away and once more ran through the doors.

"Oh, _dear_ ," Sophie cried, dashing out after Anya's retreating back.

"What was _that_ about?" Kulikovsky demanded.

"She didn't know the dowager was dead," Dimitri barked, whirling on him. "If you hadn't been so foolish, we could have broken it to her _later_."

Olga was more sympathetic. "Poor girl – no one deserves that."

"Least of all your own godchild!" Dimitri spat, furious at their stubborn nonrecognition.

Blinking at him, perhaps still shocked by his seemingly endless impertinent behavior, Olga said, "Young man, have we met before – you and I?"

"Yes," he replied. "More than once."

"You're not...by any chance... _Alexei's_ little friend...? The one he called Dima?"

It occurred to Dimitri he was at a perilous crossroads. If he admitted who he was, now that Anastasia's aunt had – at least to some extent – recognized him, he would be outing himself as a servant.

No shame in that, save for the fact that he was married to the woman he was trying to put forward as Anastasia Romanov.

An untitled man picked up by a desolate royal after the revolution, who helped her escape the country, might be somewhat acceptable. But if they knew he had been her family's former _servant..._?

Still, there was more to be gained by this admission than lost. For Anya, anyway. After all, someone who had spent that much time with the Romanovs – even as a lowly servant – would be taken far more seriously in his assertion that he had found one of them alive than someone who hadn't known them well.

Her family would almost _have_ to believe him, if he stuck to his claim after revealing himself. It would be akin to one of the Romanov children's tutors or maids stepping forward on a claimant's behalf.

Besides, if he was going to risk losing her regardless, did it matter if it was through family pressure brought on by public embarrassment or through her fury over the secret he'd kept about her dead grandmother?

Losing her was losing her, either way.

If nothing else, giving her back her family could be his final gift to her.

He willed himself not to think about what he had said back in Russia, when she'd asked if her family would try and separate them.

 _I'd like to see them_ try _._

Now, they might not even _have_ to.

If this was the end, brought on by lies, it would go out with the truth.

"Yes," he told her, nodding and thereby signing his own social death warrant. "That was me."

Olga stared into his eyes very intently. "If you lie now, young Dima, you'll break the heart of a woman who was never unkind to you." This was true, she – like the other Romanovs he'd known – had shown him as much affection as was permissible. "Tell me truthfully, do you believe the woman who just fled this room is my goddaughter, the heir to the Russian throne?"

"I believe it with all my heart."

"What," she asked next, "is the most convincing evidence you can offer for her?"

"If you want _physical_ evidence," he said, his tone very low, "there's the music box her grandmother gave her – it's at Sophie's house. And then there are the scars from the Bolsheviks' guns." He took a long breath, exhaling heavily. "But there's another kind of evidence, too."

"And what's that?" Kulikovsky demanded, skepticism dripping from each word.

Holding Olga's gaze and ignoring her husband's snide remark, Dimitri said, "I loved Anastasia Romanov. Wrong or not, I loved her. When I thought she was executed, it hurt me as much as it must have hurt you." He lifted his hand in the direction of the doors. "I love Anya exactly the same. How is that possible, if they aren't the same person?"

His eyes sent hers a single question. Wouldn't she know if her beloved _Kulikovsky_ disappeared for nine years, then magically returned? No matter what changed, somehow, even if it a took a while, wouldn't she _know_ him?

Why should Anya be any different? Love was love, in all its shapes and forms.

If he had trusted his feelings with Anya from the moment he pulled her from the river, he wouldn't have been wrong. It was only fear of being tricked again that made him ignore the most obvious answer to the riddle. Fear of being played for a fool had made a doubting Thomas out of him.

It was not a testimonial that could hold up in any court, but it was the rawest test any pair of human souls could be subjected to.

Franziska had failed that test, while Anya had passed it.

"Can you stare me in the face and tell me you didn't feel the same?" Dimitri asked flat out, his voice cracking with emotion. "That you didn't know her the moment you saw her?"

Kulikovsky, his face gone near-purple, snarled, "You will leave this box, or I will have the ushers come and _throw_ you out. This playacting has gone on long enough."

Olga was torn. Dimitri could tell she wanted to follow him out, to be reunited with the young woman who was her long-lost niece. But loyalty to Kulikovsky, and hurt over past charades, held her fast like chains.

"God will judge you harshly," Dimitri told Kulikovsky before departing. "History already has."


	47. Aunt Olga Makes A House Call

_Aunt Olga Makes A House Call_

When Dimitri arrived back at Sophie's house, alone and defeated, he was less than pleased to discover all of his clothing, his shoes, and the pillow from his side of the bed in a discombobulated heap in the hallway outside the guestroom.

The guestroom itself was locked from the inside, Anya (according to Vlad and Sophie) barricaded within and refusing to come out or speak to anyone.

Mariette had been sent up twice with a bowl of hot broth and a quarter-cut of a baguette on a tray, only to be sent away by a raspy-voiced Anya, refusing to open the door even wide enough for the food to pass through.

She wanted no one. Whatever their motives, however pure their intentions, there wasn't a soul in this house that had been honest with her. They were all guilty, and she was furious with them all.

And she _especially_ did not want to see Dimitri, the ringleader behind the lies everyone else had agreed to let her believe.

If he needed anything, he could get it from the pile of his belongings. It was no longer any concern of _hers_ , she told them coldly.

Unlike Vlad and Sophie, glumly accepting their house guest's rejection of them, Dimitri refused to go away, remaining – from the moment he returned to the house – right outside the door and knocking every five minutes.

"Go away!" she shouted, for what must have been the hundredth time that night, her voice more than merely raspy now, bordering on outright _hoarse_. "Can't you just _leave me alone_?"

"Anya, please, will you let me _explain_?" he begged her.

" _Nyet_!" she snarled.

" _Anastasia_ ," Dimitri finally burst out, rapping his knuckles once again on the wooden framework around the door, "enough is enough! This is _my_ room, too – let me in."

There was no response.

* * *

Unbeknownst to Dimitri, this lack of response was not out of pure anger. She was overcome with hearing her full – her _real_ – name from him after all this time. He'd _said_ it plenty of times since they'd been reunited, of course, but usually as a description or assertion – such as, _She is Anastasia_ , or _Anastasia's family_. This time, he'd addressed her with it and she felt... Oh, she wasn't _sure_ what. Trapped between her two selves, perhaps. The Anastasia she had once been, brokenhearted over their separation between Tobolsk and Yekaterinburg, and the person she was here in the present, going by _Anya_ , who was furious and distrusted him after the unforgivable, deceitful stunt he'd pulled.

There was another knock.

"Go away, Dimitri!"

"I am most certainly _not_ Dimitri," declared a very high-pitched, and plainly female, voice on the other side of the door.

It was not Sophie, either. Anya knew her own godmother's voice. With shaking hands, she unlocked the door, letting her aunt in.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, closing the door behind the both of them. "I thought you were–"

Aunt Olga sighed, "Yes, dear, I know very well who you thought I was." She shook her head. "That does not matter. What does matter is _this_ : who are _you_?"

"I'm your brother Nicky's youngest daughter," Anya croaked, her voice very small. "Can't you recognize me?"

"I won't say there isn't a striking resemblance," admitted Olga, taking a seat on the divan and patting it for Anya to sit beside her. "That is part of the reason, after all, I defied my husband – who I love and respect very much – and took a cab to come and see you once more tonight, in order to be _certain_."

"What," asked Anya, smoothing out the glittering train of the dress she had not yet changed out of before putting her full weight down on it to avoid crumbling it into a state beyond rescue from any iron, "was the other part of the reason?"

"Little Dima's conviction." She raised her eyebrows. "He was convinced – that much I knew was true. His conviction in itself was almost wildly convincing."

"He isn't 'little Dima' anymore," laughed Anya, a little bitterly.

"Yes, I can see he has become something much more to you." She paused for a moment. " _Goodness_! You're shivering." Here she suddenly produced a beautiful silken shawl, which she draped gently over Anya's bare, trembling shoulders. " _There_." She nodded, as if satisfied with her efforts. "I got that from Japan, you know, it's very fine. It should help keep you warm."

Anya clutched at the ends of the shawl, pulling it tighter still around herself. "Dimitri didn't tell me I was meeting you tonight, Auntie – I thought... I thought my grandmother..."

"Yes, I know that _also_ , now." She was still being kind, but at the same time her tone was growing a little impatient.

"I can show you Grandmama's music box," Anya offered, half rising. "If you need proof of what I say."

There were always her scars, from that horrible event in the cellar in Yekaterinburg, but she hesitated to inflict her personal horror on this kindly aunt. With Dimitri back at _The Sunbeam_ , it had been a different story. She had not been afraid of shocking him. He was being too stubborn and pigheaded for her to worry about the affect the scars she saw on her own marred body every day might have on his unprepared mind.

Furthermore, he had _asked_ to see them.

It was different with Aunt Olga. She might show her _someday_ , but she didn't want to _now_. There had to be other ways of proving who one was _without traumatizing_ one's helpless godmother – who _was_ being very long-suffering tonight, all things considered – in the process.

So she offered only the music box as proof of her identity for the time being.

Even that, however, proved unnecessary at the moment.

"That," Olga decided, pursing her lips, "will prove very little to me, when all is said and done. What I want is simply for us to talk a while. I remember how Anastasia and I used to talk. I need to see if _our_ conversation feels the same."

"All right, Auntie, if it's what you wish."

She sat back down.

Her hands – fingers loosely curled – in her lap, just starting to relax a very little, Anya smiled and began to open up, as she had long ago, to the kind, listening ears of her godmother.

* * *

Although he knew he had no business doing so, Dimitri crept back into the hallway and pressed his ear against the guestroom door, trying to hear what Anastasia and her Aunt Olga were saying to one another behind it.

He got very little (the door was thick) apart from muffled reminiscence and slightly raised voices now and again, a mild sign of minor disagreement between the two speakers. Followed by a long silence. That could be bad... But no, he had little reason not to assume it was _good_. That sudden noise he'd taken for a scoff following this silence might easily have been a titter – they might be laughing together.

Despite not normally being a particularly superstitious person, he had the childish urge to knock on wood for luck. The only thing that stopped him from idiotically rapping his knuckles against the framework was fear of them hearing and guessing he was trying to eavesdrop. He'd already gotten Anya mad enough at him for _one_ night; there was no need to push it any further.

A little while later, he heard the _swoosh_ of Anya's dress and approaching footsteps. Olga seemed to be promising to return soon (surely that was good?).

Bolting, he dashed down the hall and took the stairs two at a time. His hand slid on the freshly waxed banister, quickening his descent, nearly face-planting him into the rose-colored carpet when he reached the bottom.

Breathlessly, he flew into the parlor and plopped himself into a fringed chair, snatching up a book and pretending to have been reading the entire time.

Vlad, seeing him, was able to alert him with a small cough that it was, in fact, upside down, and Dimitri – with a great deal of hasty fumbling, nearly dropping the book in the progress – corrected this. But that it happened, also, to be one of Sophie's books on 'bodily changes in older women' was impossible to communicate in time and Vlad had little choice but to hope, for the sake of his young friend, Anya wouldn't look too closely at the title.

Anya walked Olga to the front door, which Mariette held open after collecting their imperial guest's gloves and coat and handing them over to her.

Later, the star-stuck maid could be routinely overheard telling anyone who would listen how she 'waited on' the sister of a dead tsar – a _princess_ , really, except grander. Even if Russia didn't _have_ Princesses anymore, not like those crazy people in England.

If he had not still been so anxious about Anya, Dimitri would likely have found this rather amusing.

At least, if nothing more, there was clearly a friendly rapport rekindled between aunt and niece. Olga kissed Anya goodbye and swore – when she returned again – she would bring her a little dog. "It's time you had another pet." She did not say it was a replacement for Pooka, shot that night in Yekaterinburg with the family, yet the implication hung – as inoffensively as it could, being so kindly meant – in the air between them. "The little dog I have in mind for you is called Toby – he is very sweet, his mama was a wonderfully tempered King Charles Spaniel, and he inherited her demeanor exactly."

Nodding, Anya accepted both the promised gift and yet another parting kiss on the forehead before her aunt disappeared into the night.

Dimitri learned all this from Vlad, who – taking mercy on him – was leaning in and out of the passage leading to the front door and describing their interactions in a low whisper.

"She's just left – it went well," he finished, before retreating to the other side of the room in his own sad attempt to appear innocent of any spying.

Anya entered the parlor, avoiding Dimitri, who blurted, " _Well_?" immediately in spite of himself.

It was strictly to Vlad – and Sophie, when she appeared a few minutes after – that Anya talked about her aunt's visit. She had, apparently, decided to forgive _them_ for their parts in tonight's deception.

Olga was convinced now that Anya was Anastasia, and was planning on telling her husband so upon returning to their Paris residence tonight, and she also wanted to make some 'arrangements' for Anya, though what most of these _were_ she had not yet said.

After informing them thus, Anya turned on her heel and, before leaving with a single scathing glance in Dimitri's direction and dashing back up the stairs to their room, said to him, "I had no idea you were so interested in menopause."

Groaning, he slapped the book against his forehead as her footsteps faded away.

"It could have been worse," Vlad tried, coming over and patting Dimitri's shoulder. "You _could_ have been holding a copy of Sigmund Freud."

Sophie shrugged. "Honestly, that would have been _less_ embarrassing – Freud is a very chic topic at the moment."

" _Crumpet_ ," Vlad disagreed, "don't be fooled – his so-called psychology books are nothing but an absurd fad. The poor madman is going to trip ironically over a banana peel and crack his head on the cobblestones one of these days, mark my words. And _n_ _obody_ is going to remember Freud when he is dead."

"I wish _I_ was dead," muttered Dimitri, rolling his eyes.


	48. Digging Up Lilies

_Digging Up Lilies_

Things had continued to be tense between Anya and Dimitri, even with a week elapsing since Olga informally acknowledged Anya to be Anastasia Romanov.

From Dimitri's end, it was pure awkwardness – he wasn't cross with her, save for a little put out that he was barred from the guestroom for two days straight, leaving him sleeping on a sofa in the parlor before she allowed him back into their bed – he just didn't know how to put things right.

What could he possibly say in his defense, other than – in fairness – it _had_ been a success, his keeping her grandmother's death a secret in order to secure her meeting with her aunt?

From Anya's end, there was genuine coldness. Her exchanges with him were short and frosty, at best. At their worst, she could barely stand to look at him.

The latter, at least, had lessened considerably in the last couple of days, which Dimitri took as the only positive sign she'd given that she _might_ be on the road to forgiving him.

If nothing else, she stayed in his presence more often during this week's end than she had in the days before. He clung to that fact like a drowning man, little true hope though it actually gave him.

On this partly-sunny afternoon speckled by passing clouds and the occasional light shower, they both found themselves sitting on an iron filigree bench in Sophie and Vlad's spacious lawn.

Anya was seated at one end, throwing a little rubber ball for her new dog Toby to chase. Olga had been as good as her word and indeed brought over the promised pet for her niece, which Dimitri, though he was not fond of the drooling and, in his opinion, somewhat dim-witted mutt _personally_ , believed did his wife a world of good. Anya had the little spaniel follow her everywhere, and seemed happy whenever he whined for her attention, even if it was simply to inform his mistress he was about to piddle on Sophie's formerly clean kitchen floor.

Honestly, as far as new pets went, Dimitri preferred the white, green-eyed cat Olga had also brought for Sophie out of politeness when she came to deliver Anya's dog. Called Kiki, the cat was remarkably clean, very quiet, and usually stayed out of everyone's way. She generally only came out of hiding when Sophie or Mariette bribed her with a saucer of milk. This was the stark opposite of poor hapless Toby, who they were all always tripping over.

Dimitri was seated at the other end of the bench, his head lowered, going over an unexpected letter he had received from Russia that morning.

From _Irina_ , of all people.

How she had learned he was staying with Vlad and Sophie, whom he had never told her about, much less discovered their postal address, he hadn't the foggiest notion.

Anya, having seen the not-at-all-subtle loopy script of the return address, knew who it was from and was waiting, rather impatiently, for Dimitri to tell her what it said.

The longer he poured over it morosely, the more visibly impatient she grew.

Thinking it might encourage her to say more than 'pass the butter' or 'you're sitting on the corset I left on the bed' to him – a near-impossible feat these days – he waited in silence until Anya finally snapped, "Are you _ever_ going to tell me what's in that letter you're mooning over?"

Lifting his head and raising his eyebrows, Dimitri smirked. This was slightly more vehemence than he had banked on, and for whatever reason he took it as a positive sign.

"Is that a twinge of _jealousy_ I hear?" he asked, in the most aggravatingly sing-song tone he could muster under the circumstances.

Not that anything involving _Irina Alexandrovna_ ever needed to inspire such a feeling in her, as he'd explained perfectly well before. The chances of him ever mooning over anything whiny, motor-mouth Irina had to say were exactly _nil_. Still, he liked that Anya obviously felt a kind of ownership over him, enough that she didn't like him reading another woman's letters and keeping their contents to himself. That at least meant she wasn't entirely apathetic to him after what he'd done. He was still hers, and maybe – just _maybe_ – she intended to keep it that way.

"It most certainly is _not_ ," Anya grunted, momentarily ignoring Toby's insistent whining for her to throw the rubber ball again and focusing her narrowed eyes on Dimitri.

"I was only waiting for you to _ask_ ," he pointed out.

"Well, I'm _asking,_ okay?" She whipped the ball with more vigor this time, accidentally smashing in the front of a freshly-pruned bush (Sophie's gardener was going to have a heart attack when he saw that). "Are you happy now?"

Toby barked and chased the ball into the damaged bush, oblivious to his mistress' sudden change of mood. He had tiny leaves and clods of mulch stuck to his beautiful golden fur when he returned, placing the ball at Anya's feet and wagging his tail enthusiastically.

"Practically jumping for joy." Dimitri sighed and placed the letter in her lap.

Anya looked down, wrinkled her nose, and gasped out, not _quite_ laughing but almost, "It's a _bill_!" She shook her head, as if she'd expected or at least imagined something very different and was chiding herself for being so foolish. "She wants you to pay her back every ruble of her father's you helped spend."

Dimitri turned a little red. It embarrassed him to think of just how much money he had blown before he got his own income from _The Sunbeam_ 's profits. The first year it hadn't made any, being a new business, and he'd needed to spend Irina's inheritance to live. Irina hadn't seemed to mind, not back then – _she'd_ been spending it like water, too.

Still, after eating from the trash and nearly starving, he'd admittedly gone a little overboard, mad with the power a constantly-replenished handful of rubles gave him, especially in the cruddy Bolshevik run economy. He'd felt... Well, it was sacrilegious to _say_ , after everything, but rather like a tsar. He'd liked having everything he wanted exactly when he wanted it.

True, it had only been a way of trying vainly to fill in the hole losing the Romanovs had left in his life, but he still could have been more careful. If he'd known that one day Anastasia would return to him and he'd have to leave Irina and flee Russia in order to be with her honestly, he _would_ have been. Or, more likely, he'd never have pretended to be Irina's husband in the first place.

Ironically, he had grown more careful _after_ he got his own hard-earned money. It was only during the time Irina was doling out cash like free sweets that he went a bit crazy.

"You spent _how much_ on vodka a month?" Anya exclaimed, reading on.

"No, no, that's not fair," Dimitri protested. " _She_ drank as much of that as I did – it was the only way we could stand being around each other."

"She wants you to pay for a new back scratcher?" Anya blinked, confused.

Dimitri winced. " _That's_ actually fair – I may have used that in places it wasn't intended for."

Anya cocked her head at him. "Are you saying you used it on your–?"

" _Next_ item," he all but begged, trying desperately to wave it off.

"She paid exhuming and reburial funeral expenses for your aunt?" Anya frowned. "You don't _have_ an aunt." One of her hands was on her hip now. " _Dimitri_?"

He felt his expression falling automatically, from embarrassment to sadness, and he could do nothing to stop it, to downplay what this meant. There was no more hiding it from her, much as he desperately wanted to.

"She _says_ ," Anya pressed, waving that page of the letter under his nose, "that she had your dead aunt relocated from Siberia to Petersburg. _Who_ is she talking about?"

Dimitri's shoulders slumped. " _Lili_ , Anya, my 'dead aunt' was your mother's lady-in-waiting." He did air quotes on _dead aunt_. "I couldn't tell Irina the truth, and I couldn't leave the poor woman there, buried in an unmarked grave in a place she was so scared of. She _hated_ Yekaterinburg, Anya, she was only there to find you and your family. Leaving her there forever felt wrong; she was _born_ in Saint Petersburg – it was _her_ city once."

Anya softened considerably, the remainder of ice in her now-watering blue eyes melting. "You did that? You brought her home?"

"Don't sound so _surprised_ ," he scoffed, trying to be gruff to avoid crying.

She sounded awed. "I didn't even know she was sick."

"She _wasn't_ ," Dimitri murmured.

"What?"

"She wasn't sick."

"What are you saying?"

Toby finally seemed to sense some of the tension and plopped down on Anya's shoes, whining at a different pitch, as if trying to comfort her.

"She hung herself, Anya." He put his hand to his forehead. "And I'm the one who found her."

Her face twisted in pain, Anya swallowed, struggling to clear her suddenly dry throat. "Why would she _do_ that?"

"It was my fault," Dimitri sighed. "I told her what they did to you – to your family. It never occurred to me that she wouldn't be able to handle it; I thought, I just _assumed_ , we both _had_ to."

To his surprise, Anya took his hand in hers. "Thank you for not copying her – I don't know what I'd do without you."

Without his saying so, she understood, the way she always had; the way he should have _known_ she _would_. Dimitri didn't need to say he'd been tempted more than once to copy Lili's example, to end it all. Just being told about Lili, about his guilt regarding the poor woman's fate, was enough for Anya to fill in the rest. He should never have underestimated her strength. He should have remembered that, yes, his wife could have a breakdown over almost anything if it reminded her of her past trauma, but also that, no, she was not weak. Not for nothing had she survived not only the massacre of her family, but also a night in the woods wounded and bleeding, as well as nine years in a dangerously changed Russia following this.

She was brave, though she had been afraid, and she understood _everything_.

"You're welcome," he whispered.

"Hey," she said, in a very different tone now, "I wanted to ask you something."

"What's that?"

"Aunt Olga wants to host a special party with the family, at a reserved restaurant, tomorrow night." Anya bit her lip. "To show me to the other Romanov relatives."

 _Ah_ , Dimitri saw what her aunt was up to. It was a kind of buffer, a prelude. This was her way of – still unofficially, yet somewhat publicly, in a way that could not be taken back – showing her support for Anya's claim.

This way, Anastasia's other relations would have a chance to see her for themselves and draw their own conclusions, connected to and separate from Olga's say-so, before any public announcement was made.

She was _clever_ ; Dimitri had to give her that. However, he did wonder how she'd convinced that stubborn husband of hers to go along with it.

" _Anyway_ ," Anya continued, "I know things haven't been..." She trailed off. "But I still... I mean, I was wondering if..."

" _Yes_?" he prompted.

"Would you escort me?" Her face, gone pale since he told her about Lili, had never fully regained its color and was draining all over again. "I don't think I can do this on my own, Dimitri. I'm still frightened."

He squeezed her hand, still in his own. "Why, I'd be _honored_ , Anastasia Nicholaevna."

She cracked a smile, intertwining their fingers and rolling back her shoulders in relief. "The honor is _mine_ , Dimitri Viktorovich."

They shared this tender moment until Anya had to break away to shout for Toby (who had gotten off her shoes and wandered in the other direction) to stop digging up Sophie's perfectly symmetrical rows of white-and-red lilies.

Toby obliged by ceasing his vigorous digging in the flower bed, only to pee and then 'do the Governor' on the freshly up-turned soil under the half-dug-up flowers instead.

The poor gardener. This befouling of the lily-bed might just push him into an early retirement.

* * *

The dress Aunt Olga had sent over for the highly-anticipated dinner was certainly beautiful, if a little provoking.

Simply put, it definitely didn't _understate_ the fact that Olga was putting Anya forward as Anastasia Romanov, daughter of her late brother, former Tsar Nicholas.

As Anya opened the long box and unwrapped it from the tissue paper, she couldn't hold back a little gasp. It was an elaborate evening gown, bright red, embroidered with gold thread and set with gleaming rubies. The front of the gown had the rubies and gold thread forming the contour of an imperial eagle. Only one of Nicholas Romanov's children would have the right to wear such a thing in front of the people who would be present at this dinner.

Perhaps wanting to downplay the obvious anxiety this caused Anya despite the fact that she had every right to it, Dimitri's comment was, "It's exactly the same color as your hair."

"Don't stand in front of any red curtains tonight," he added jokingly, wiggling his eyebrows at her, "or you might be too camouflaged for your relatives to see you."

She stuck out her tongue at him over her shoulder and cut her eyes, fighting to bite back a smile all the same.

Under the dress were a fresh pair of white satin gloves, the tiniest diamond tiara imaginable, and a velvet box that – once the lid was popped open – revealed a pair of ruby teardrop earrings.

Sophie fawned over the earrings and stated firmly that Anya was going to be the loveliest lady in that formal dining room tonight. "Walk down the stairs very slowly when you descend," she recommended heartily. "I remember that restaurant well – the room your aunt will have rented is the one in the ground floor, the largest and finest. There will be _such a lot_ of stairs. Walk down these slowly and let everyone take you in. They'll all know who you are the moment they see you enter like this, I just know it!"

"Today returns the little lost princess," Vlad added sentimentally from the corner where he sat, his aching back propped and padded with soft down pillows, ironically reading a book by Sigmund Freud.

The excitement Anya knew she ought to feel, over being where she should be, was actually more like a hollow, sour feeling in her stomach at the moment.

Anya didn't understand it. Why was this so?

Was this the way her poor Mama felt when she had had to attend functions involving the Russia aristocracy? Like her head was lingering on the verge of exploding at any given moment? Like she might vomit if she moved too quickly?

Why she should be so worried, she didn't know. Auntie Olga would protect her. Even if Grandmama had lived to see and recognize her, this still would have been inevitable; she would still have to come forward like this.

And this was only the beginning.

The press hadn't gotten wind yet. Just wait until _that_ happened! Or when she was required to attend her first ball since childhood, which seemed a thousand years in the past now.

She was glad she had reconciled with Dimitri, that he was escorting her and would be at her side all evening. Between him and Auntie Olga, she could easily reassure herself there was nothing to be afraid of.

Even if tonight went badly, she would always have _them_.

And that was, even if he'd gone about it the wrong way, largely to Dimitri's credit. Without his stunt, and his selfless testimony that she was Anastasia, she might never have gotten her godmother back in her life.

Yet one question lingered.

When this was all over, and she was publicly recognized as Nicholas and Alexandra's daughter, _then_ what?

Where did they – herself and Dimitri – go from _here_?

And why did things going so relatively smoothly in her life for _once_ also feel like she was fast approaching a jarring dead end which there was no swinging back around from?


	49. Family Dinner

_Family Dinner_

As Anya, her arm linked with Dimitri's, made her way down the stairs into the dining room, wearing the red gown displaying the image of the imperial eagle over her chest and torso, all eyes were on her.

All eyes were on her, and there was a good deal of whispering and murmuring, but the first persons with the gall to boisterously approach her were her cousins Prince Rostislav and Prince Vasili.

Spotting them when they were still a couple feet off, Dimitri quickly whispered, " _Incoming_ : reason first cousins probably shouldn't marry so much in one family," into Anya's ear. "Not enough branches on this end of your family tree – just straight on _up_."

She wasn't in the least offended – Dimitri was right. And goodness did it _show_ in this case! Anya had always thought Rostislav and Vasili reminded her a bit of Tweedledee and Tweedledum as children: Always together, always fighting and comically bopping one another over the head, usually because of a stupid disagreement. Even prim and proper Tatiana had agreed with Anastasia's assessment of the boys, these rough cousins of theirs, and had done as much to coin these _Wonderland_ characters as their nicknames privately between OTMA as her youngest sister did.

If she weren't seeing it now with her own eyes, Anya would hardly have believed it was _possible_ , but they reminded her _even more_ of Lewis Carroll's creations as adults. They'd lost some of their roundness, to be sure, but that dull gleam in their eyes, the way they shared every thought – if you could call what went through their minds that – remained dead ringers.

Like a pair of schoolyard bullies, they blocked her way, declaring they _knew_ Anastasia and she wasn't her.

"We were such good friends," Vasili said, his tone flat. "Playing together in the Crimea."

" _Such_ good friends," echoed Rostislav, nodding repeatedly, as if he had a tick. "She did bite me once, though."

"I did not!" Anya burst out, all but stamping her foot, she was so indignant. "You little lying snipes – you only _told_ Papa I did to get me in trouble, and he _believed_ you."

The princes' mouths dropped open simultaneously and they stared at her, shell-shocked, for a second before throwing their arms around her in a gigantic clumsy hug that did little besides halt her breathing and wrinkle her dress.

" _Anastasia_ ," they cried together; "it really _is_ you!"

In spite of herself, Anya felt tears flooding her eyes. She had never liked these boys, the worst two out of Aunt Xenia's six idiot sons, whom she and Maria used to actively hide from when they were visiting Livadia at the same time as them, but their reaction – their unrestrained joy at having her back – was moving all the same.

They were her family, and she had never thought to see them again, much less be embraced by them.

"You _numskulls_ ," growled the voice of a short, portly man appearing behind them, glaring at Anya. "Can't you see she's played you for a fool – look who she's _with_ : the old kitchen boy they plucked from dish-duty to play with Alexei! He could have told her anything she needed to know about your shared childhood. And you two saps have fallen for it already."

The boys let go of Anya and examined her face more carefully, at one point so uncomfortably close their noses almost touched hers as they squinted.

Finally pulling away, Rostislav remained convinced she was their long-lost cousin. He said she resembled Anastasia exactly and they'd only been teasing – _testing_ her, really – to be sure, and the fact that some old servant was escorting her didn't change that.

Taking an opposite view to his brother for the first time Anya had ever heard of, Vasili wasn't so convinced anymore. There was doubt flickering like a dying light-bulb in those usually blank eyes of his.

Dimitri opened his mouth to say something, probably to tell them off, but Anya decided to handle it herself. Holding up a gloved hand, she strode forward, almost giggling as she made eye-contact with the man who was chiding her cousins for welcoming her so enthusiastically.

"You're Count Leopold, aren't you?" she gasped. "I remember – you're just the same as before! Dyed hair, powdered face, and vodka breath!" Looking back at Dimitri, she added, "Don't you remember how my parents used to make fun of him behind his back?"

"Of course," laughed Dimitri, "and it's no wonder. _Everybody_ did. Even the servants."

Going scarlet under his facial powder, Leopold retreated, muttering under his liquor-laced breath.

Aunt Olga, having heard the commotion and knowing it meant her niece had arrived, came over at last and took Anya's hand. "The worst is over, dear."

She doubted that, somewhat, as they were approaching Kulikovsky, and he didn't look any friendlier than the last time she'd seen him, back at the ballet.

Whatever Olga had said to him about Anya before tonight, however, must have pounded some grudging respect into him, even if it was only for his wife's opinion that this was in fact Anastasia Romanov standing before them. For, while he did not smile, he did nod his head slightly, almost in a sort of bow, and kiss her hand with cold politeness. The problem of how to address her he seemed to have solved for himself by simply not addressing her at all as they made their way to the long table in the center of the room.

Aunt Xenia, seated across from them at the table, flanked on either side by her sons, who'd settled down grimly, still evidently shaken from the experience of both having to use their brains maybe for the first time in their lives and from suddenly having opposite opinions rather than sharing a jolt mob mentality they'd always shared with each other and their other four brothers.

On the other side of Dimitri sat Felix Yusupov, Rostislav and Vasili's brother-in-law.

Yusupov seemed to recognize Anastasia right away, though they had actually known each other very sparingly back in the day, as rumors of his unsavory lifestyle had caused Alexandra to keep him well away from her precious, chaste girls.

Still, it was not _impossible_ that he remembered her face and manner. He had once escorted her, when there was no one else to be had and Nicholas told his wife to allow it for the look of thing, during a parade. She had been fifteen at the time, and rather curious about him because he was engaged to Aunt Xenia's daughter. So they'd talked a bit after the ceremony. Her sisters had disproved. Maria was a little afraid of Felix, because of his reputation, and Tatiana suspected, wrongly, that Anastasia had developed a crush on him and threatened to tell Mama.

The moment Anya sat down, Yusupov actually leaned forward and winked at her, offering a friendly half-smile, as if to say: We _both know you're Anastasia, don't we? Isn't this all so_ silly _?_

Xenia was friendly enough to her, more than many of the others, but Anya did think she caught a look of dark disapproval from this aunt when she noticed Dimitri holding her hand above the table between one of the dinner courses.

Anya wondered if it were possible that her aunt was jealous. She had heard rumors that Xenia's own marriage, originally having started out as a love match not unlike her own parents' union, recently went sour in a blaze of adulterous backstabbing that made the events of _Anna Karenina_ seem like child's play in comparison.

Before dessert was brought out, Rostislav declared, "Anastasia, you _must_ come to luncheon at my Paris residence sometime while you're here – I would love to introduce you to my wife and children. Bring along anyone you'd like." He looked at Dimitri when he said the last part, much to the passing – but obvious – disapproval of his mother.

It took Anya a full three minutes to realize her cousin was serious. That he actually did have a family and was offering to introduce her as Anastasia Romanov to them.

While she wondered what kind of madwoman would marry Rostislav – irregardless of the fact that he was technically a prince, and so his bride would hold the coveted title of _princess_ , despite that it meant nothing politically these days – she also realized he was sincerely trying to be kind with this generous invitation.

"That would be lovely," she managed, finally, willing herself not to choke.

Anya was saved from having to say any more on the subject, or set an actual date for the promised luncheon, by Yusupov's deciding to take that exact moment to regale them all with a story about his cross-dressing adolescence.

"So, there I am, wearing my poor Mama's best string of pearls – this thing costs thousands of rubles – and prancing around in Petersburg's high society in a flowing dress, when all of a sudden, _snap_!" He lifted his hands above his head and clapped them together for dramatic effect. "The string breaks and these priceless pearls go scattering _everywhere_."

Aunt Xenia looked embarrassed, as if she couldn't believe her son-in-law had enough screws missing that he thought this was a good story to share in public, forcing a smile but meeting nobody's eyes throughout its telling.

Count Leopold's face had turned a frightful shade of puce; he was plainly disgusted by this turn in the conversation, as well as Yusupov's smug pride in telling a story that, to _his_ mind, should have been a shameful family secret, at best, _never_ an anecdote told at parties.

Everyone else seemed amused, including Dimitri, who was chuckling.

Although, Anya suspected her husband's amusement might have had something to do with the fact that Yusupov was telling the story entirely in Russian. Which, of course, meant Dimitri could follow it easier than many of the other discussions that had transpired at the table this evening, almost all of which had been in a mixture of French and English.

The latter, Anya knew, still gave Dimitri a great deal of trouble. He could manage pretty well now in French, which was only improving during this time spent in Paris; but his English remained rather terrible and even seemed to be getting a little worse. Particularly if a conversation involved words he'd never heard pronounced before and had only struggled in vain agony to read from one of Alexei's books before the revolution. It was a true testament to the overly simplistic language used in some of Auntie Olga's English Romance novels that he had somehow been able to read and understand those during his pubescence.

"So, my friends and I," Yusupov continued, "are crawling on the floor, trying to gather up all these pearls, getting stepped on by dozens of intoxicated aristocrats."

Anya actually remembered a little of this story as told by Tatiana and her mother. Their version was less humorous and more about Yusupov acting the fool in public, showcasing his gross immaturity.

"Did you find them all?" Vasili wanted to know.

"All but a few," Yusupov admitted. "But the proprietor knew who the pearls belonged to and returned them to my family when they were found a couple of nights later. But, _Jesus Christ_ , was my father in a rankled twist over it!"

By the time Yusupov's story was finished, with his father having conniptions, everyone was done with their dessert and most people were beginning to leave the table.

A handful of relatives came over to kiss Anya's hand before departing as a sign of respect, but the others gave her little more than a skeptical glare before turning up their noses and fast-walking out of the dining room, muttering about how all this was 'pure nonsense'.

Leopold, rather than dash off with the others of his opinion, lingered in order to keep whispering something to Xenia, who shook her head and sighed repeatedly.

Anya suspected this aunt truly believed, as at least one of her sons still did, that she was Anastasia, regardless of how eager Leopold was to sway her opinion, yet was disapproving of her on some level.

The dark look on Xenia's face when she'd seen Dimitri holding her niece's hand came back to Anya's mind. She wondered if Dimitri had noticed that. In a way, she hoped he hadn't, not wanting him to be discouraged when all he'd done was be strong for her tonight.

At least Dimitri was getting along with Yusupov. The few times they'd met before the revolution, the pair hadn't liked each other much, having run in very different circles, but things were doubtless different now. Especially as they were both married to exiled Russian princesses descended from Alexander the third. They had at least that much in common in this new order of things. And Felix did have the added bonus of at least possessing enough brains for an intelligent conversation, unlike his brothers-in-law, God bless them.

All the same, Anya wanted to leave. She whispered this to Aunt Olga, who nodded, agreeing she had endured quite enough for one night.

"It was a success, though," she reassured her. "I know it mightn't seem like it now, but it was – even my husband was softening towards you by the second course, and I alone know how stubborn the man can be."

Anya laughed. "He can't possibly be as stubborn as Dimitri."

"You would be _surprised_ , darling." Olga slipped her arm around her niece's shoulders, laughing along with her. "We Romanov women seem to have a taste for remarkably stubborn men. It can be a ghastly affliction, as well as delightful fun."

"Can you believe Rostislav invited me to luncheon?" Anya asked, rolling her eyes.

"Oh, Rostislav is a sweet young man these days, nothing like the devil of a child he once was, even if he doesn't have the brains the good Lord gave a wheel of cheese.

"And his children are _lovely_ – you'd like them. Oh, how poor Mashka would have..." Here she let go of Anya's shoulders and turned away.

Anya had to blink back tears of her own at the thought of what Maria's reaction to Rostislav's children would have been. Her favorite sister would have loved _any_ children, no matter who their father was. She'd always so badly longed for some of her own. A fervent wish that would never be fulfilled.

To distract herself, Anya declared that she and Dimitri would go and fetch their coats from the upstairs coatroom, snagging his arm and taking a step towards the stairs.

"Don't be _silly_ , Anastasia," Yusupov – who had remained behind, perhaps hoping to persuade Anya and Dimitri to remain for dancing and vodka upstairs after the stuffy older generation had made their exits – cut in. "Neither of you need worry a thing about _that_ ; the ushers can get–" But something in her face must have told him that she wanted to fetch it herself, as a kind of break in the evening, even as it was ending. "Forgive me, I've misspoken. Of course you want to gather your belongings yourselves." He nodded over at Dimitri. "Have a good evening, my friend."

* * *

"That was _excruciating_ ," Anya whispered as they slid into the coatroom. "God, my heart feels like a humming bird's." She pressed her gloved hand to her chest, breathing shakily.

Dimitri nodded in agreement. His own head was spinning like a top, and he was fairly certain it wasn't because of the wine served with dessert.

Finding her fur-lined, brown-velvet coat, Anya tugged it off the high coat-hanger (she was a little short to reach it properly, to the point where Dimitri almost had to intervene and get it down for her, but she managed it in the end).

Getting his own coat, with little difficultly, Dimitri did his best to sum up the night in his woozy head. Most of the relatives were standoffish and not very friendly, apart from those poor, demented boneheaded boys of her Aunt Xenia's. Felix Yusupov was _too_ friendly; yet Dimitri still felt somewhat endeared to the man despite this fact, and thus the obvious need for caution around him, largely because of how well he had treated Anya and how instantly he'd accepted her.

Her Aunt Olga's husband might be all right, after all; he hadn't been _as_ insufferable tonight.

Leopold was a nightmare, but he was also a pompous fool. What could _he_ do to them? Nothing except blither and glare judgmentally. No one cared anything for the fusty count.

Really, Leopold was a little bitty fish in a big pond playing at being massive enough to swallow Jonah whole after he ditched his mission to Nineveh. So, _nyet_ , he was not the problem.

If _anyone_ had particularly unnerved Dimitri tonight, it was probably Anastasia's Aunt Xenia herself. Something about the way she had looked at him when he squeezed her niece's hand was more than merely unfriendly. Beyond its clear anger, however, he could read little of it – _that_ was what worried him the most, not knowing what she wanted of him or what he'd done to offend her.

"Come on," Anya sighed, snapping him out of his whirling thoughts. "I just want to go home and get into bed."

"When you say 'get into bed'," he teased, widening his eyes for dramatic effect, "do you mean sleep?" In his head, he added, _Or_...?

Giggling, Anya leaned forward and murmured, "Not right away. I might want to enjoy a bit of your company beforehand."

"Then what in blazes are we still doing _here_?" He motioned at the coatroom door excitedly. "Let's get moving."

"I _thought_ you might see that way." She managed, despite her high heels teetering under her during the attempt, to stand on her toes and initiate a kiss.

Which, naturally, he responded to passionately before pulling away and finding himself face-to-face with a scowling Count Leopold. He nearly yelped aloud; the man was like a pop-up book from hell.

Why the count had elected to fetch his own coat rather than send for it, Dimitri hadn't the foggiest, unless it was – and he suspected this might indeed be the case – to spy on the 'Anastasia pretender' and perhaps catch her saying something incriminating that would prove she was not who she claimed to be.

"Such disgrace," the count was muttering, shaking his bulbous head. "Such shame, from one who says she is of our family."

Anya was struggling not to laugh, and Dimitri quickly figured out why. The count, old prude that he obviously was, must have not realized their relationship to each other.

To be fair, Dimitri himself had left it rather vague, not telling anyone directly tonight that Anya was his wife, though he had not removed his wedding ring nor done anything to conceal his right hand. But, of course, the corresponding ring on Anya's finger was covered by her glove, so it was understandable if a few people missed the connection there. He wondered briefly if Xenia had been one of those, but ultimately decided she was not. Something in that woman's gaze had told him she knew exactly what they were to each other, and that it mattered very little to her if they'd been joined in holy matrimony proceeding it or not. It was still unsavory to her regardless.

" _Do_ lighten up, Leopold," Anya said finally, straightening her coat and taking Dimitri's hand, departing with a short eye-roll. "Or your face may just freeze like that and everybody will have a whole new reason to laugh at you."

Dimitri strongly suspected a story about their alleged misconduct in the coatroom would be circulated throughout the distant Romanov family branches over the next twelve hours. Probably collecting more sordid details with each member the tale passed through. By the time it got back to them, he imagined the single, fairly chaste (if fervent) kiss would have been forgotten, replaced by a lot of groping, petting, and moaning atop a pile of coats.

 _Great_.

* * *

A couple of days after the strenuous family dinner, Dimitri happened to be alone in Sophie's house.

It was Mariette's day off, so she was doubtless shopping or visiting nearby relatives, many of whom also worked as household servants for exiled White Russians; Anya and Sophie had gone to help with a decorating committee for something called _The_ _Neva Club_ which Sophie insisted was a very good place for Anya to be seen and perhaps recognized; and Vlad was walking Toby in that park nearby his favorite doughnut dispensary (he wouldn't be back for a few hours).

Dimitri had decided to spend this unexpected free time taking a nap in the guestroom, but was woken early by the uncharacteristic yowling and begging of Sophie's cat.

Kiki was meowing loudly outside the door, scratching at it, and he quickly gathered she wanted to be fed and was demanding he – as the last living being in the house – do _something_ about it.

"All _right_ , Kiki," he muttered, stumbling out of bed in nothing but an undershirt and loose slacks, one sock on his left foot while the right was bare. "I'm getting up."

The cat stopped making noise when she heard him stir, following him silently down the hall, yet started up again once they reached the stairs.

" _Kiki_ ," he yawned, "it's the same set of stairs you go down _every single day_."

The cat whined, almost growling.

"And I suppose you expect me to carry you down it _anyway_?" She rubbed against his legs, and he bent down to pick her up. "Very nice." He sighed, scratching her ears as he began marching down the stairs with the spoiled cat in his arms. "You're getting as bad as Toby, you know that?" Her only response was a light purr.

He had nearly reached the kitchen, setting the cat down, when there was a knock at the door.

Without thinking, he strode back into the entranceway to answer it, despite Kiki beginning to yowl again, doubtless demanding to know where he was going without feeding her first.

Afterwards, looking back on that moment, he chided himself for being such an idiotka. Why hadn't he just ignored it? It wasn't his house. If he had only... Well, he _didn't_. He'd answered.

And there ended up being no turning back from that, or the resulting conversation because of that foolish choice.

There he stood, inappropriately – and insufficiently – dressed to receive company, and covered in cat hair (Kiki was currently shedding rather a lot), opening the door for none other than Xenia.

"Anya isn't..." he began, then cleared his throat, deciding not to use that name. " _Anastasia_ isn't here, your highness." _What do you_ want _?_

"Yes, I'm well aware," said Xenia, in a tone he took to be cold and calculating, though he still couldn't fully work out the _reason_ for such iciness towards him. "I wanted to speak with _you_." She looked him up and down, finally meeting his eyes and arching a brow questioningly while fingering a jeweled handbag she kept clutched to her person as though she expected him to try and steal it. "If I haven't caught you at a bad time, as it seems – from the look of you – I very well might have." Her nose wrinkled. "Unless, of course, you _always_ attire yourself this way when you receive visitors; I've grown unfamiliar with what's appropriate for your class since the revolution, it changes so _often_ nowadays."

Shaking his head – deciding it wasn't _worth_ it to acknowledge her condescension with a rebuttal or an offended facial expression – he opened the door a little wider, letting her inside.

"Make yourself comfortable," he said through his teeth, as graciously as he could under the circumstances. "I'll only be a minute upstairs."

Once he was dressed, he'd come back down and find out what she wanted.


	50. An Unfortunate Agreement

_An Unfortunate Agreement_

After dressing properly and returning to the parlor, where Xenia waited impatiently, Dimitri still didn't find out what she wanted straightaway, as she insisted he fix some tea for her visit, since Mariette was not there to do it.

When he hesitated, having fallen slightly out of his former practice of springing into action every time a Romanov wanted something in the nine years he spent without any of them in proximity, she remarked, "I trust you haven't forgotten _how_?"

"No," he said, unable to stop his eyes from narrowing. "I haven't forgotten anything."

" _Good_ ," she simpered condescendingly, tucking one of her ankles behind the other and draping her elbow over the sofa's armrest. "That will make what I have to say much easier, I hope."

If this woman were _anyone_ but Anastasia's aunt and Nicholas' sister, talking to him like this, Dimitri would have made the tea and then promptly dumped it into her lap.

But he couldn't disrespect his wife or the memory of the tsar in that way, so he had no choice but to grin like an ax-murderer and bear it.

He brought out the tea service and placed it on the small coffee table in front of her.

"Only _one_ spoonful of sugar, if you please," Xenia said. "And pray don't pour too much milk in – I hate it when servants overfill and I can't even lift the teacup to my lips without spilling scalding tea all over my hands."

"Of _course_ ," he said through his teeth, finally getting it – at least marginally – to her satisfaction and given leave to sit down and pour tea for himself. "Now, what did you need to speak to me about?"

"I feel, Dimitri, you and I need to reach an understanding." She took an aggravatingly long sip of her tea. "Things cannot just go on as they have been, not if you want my niece to take her place among her family. You understand what I mean, yes?"

"I'm not sure I do," he admitted, too puzzled to be cross at her continued condescension.

" _Really_..." Xenia rolled her eyes. "Nicky always made it seem like you were _clever_ – perhaps he overestimated your mental abilities, or else you've gotten lax since those days."

Couldn't she just _say_ what she meant already? Did she think Dimitri had all the time in the world, or – more likely – that _she_ did and _his_ time didn't matter?

"It's come to my attention – and was confirmed to me by my sister – that you and my niece are living as a married couple."

"We _are_ a married couple."

"Do you have any proof of this alleged marriage?"

Dimitri held up his right hand, showing her his wedding ring.

"Well, that's very nice, but I meant papers, or pictures," she explained, getting, as she plainly expected, a shake of his head. " _No_? Not one single photograph? Ah, well, I thought as much."

"We were properly married," Dimitri insisted, "by a Russian Orthodox priest. You'll have to forgive me for being more concerned about not letting the Bolsheviks plug your niece full of bullets again than _paperwork_."

"Truly noble of you, and we are grateful you managed to bring her here in one piece," Xenia said, raising her brow. "But the point remains: you have no proof. The only person, besides the two of you, who could ever claim such a wedding took place would be the priest himself? _If_ he is still alive?"

Dimitri felt his blood run cold; this conversation was taking an uncomfortable turn, and he wasn't liking where it was headed. He hadn't known any of the witnesses to their marriage, or whether or not the Bolsheviks had let them go free. "I _suppose_."

"I am prepared," Xenia said next, "to offer you the sum of ten million rubles."

"As a wedding present?" He had finally worked out what she was getting at, and he refused to make it easy. "How _generous_. But, you know, you _could_ have just gotten us a toaster."

"As payment for finding my niece – a kind of _reward_." Her eyes darkened, and he suspected she knew he was playing stupid on purpose. "Provided, of course, that you leave Paris before my niece is officially introduced back into society as Anastasia Romanov." She took out a cigarette, struck a match, and lit it, bringing it to her lips and inhaling deeply. "Olga is giving her a coming out ball of sorts next week – she wanted it to be a surprise, but here we are." She untucked and re-tucked her ankle, taking another long drag on her cigarette. "If you take the money, I expect you not to escort Anastasia to this ball and to be headed out of Paris by the end of that night."

"Have I done something to offend you?" Dimitri demanded, his voice dangerously low, no longer playing around or able to hide the hurt he was feeling because of this all-too-obvious bribe. "Is that why you're being so cruel?"

" _Am_ I being cruel?" Xenia replied coyly. "I hadn't realized. I thought I had just offered you a lavish amount of money."

Snorting in disgust, Dimitri snapped, "And you thought I'd _take_ it?"

"Won't you?"

" _Never_!" he all but _spat_.

"And why not?"

"How can you ask me that?" he exclaimed, incredulous. "You want me to leave my wife – for _money_." Exactly _what_ kind of lowlife did she _take_ him for?

"Honestly, Dimitri, _think_ ," Xenia urged him, keeping her voice as dispassionate as possible to counter his vehement fury. "You had no rights to her in the first place – she is a grand duchess, you were a servant, now just a glorified peasant; just _Comrade Dimitri_."

"That doesn't matter anymore."

" _Doesn't_ it?" she asked pointedly. "Perhaps not in _Russia_ , but here, among her royal family, it certainly _should_ matter to you." She flicked dripping ash from her cigarette into a crystal ashtray. "Are you aware that Anastasia herself was well-received at dinner two days ago, that it was _you_ the family took issue with?"

Dimitri was flabbergasted. "Me?"

"Well, _naturally_. You must have realized they disapproved of a servant acting so high above his station. Many of them had met you in your former position at least once, visiting my brother. They knew who you were.

"Vouching for her, that helped her case – lingering with her, attempting to pass for a prince, does not."

He in no way had pretended to be anything he wasn't – this wasn't like his cons with Irina in Russia; this had been honest, for Anya's sake. And somehow he'd still messed it up. How bloody _like_ him.

But surely Xenia was merely being a snob? _Exaggerating_? He knew for a fact that at least two people present at that dinner had not minded him.

Maybe even _four_.

Xenia's own sons had seemed unaffected by the knowledge he'd been a servant, save for Vasili's skepticism planted in his empty head by Leopold regarding what useful tidbits Dimitri might have told Anya to make her seem more like Anastasia. Then again, he wasn't sure if Xenia's sons would be affected by a full-on _earth quake_ in the middle of dinner; if such would even induce them to put down their forks for a moment. They were hardly the pair to make his case with.

Olga and Yusupov, then.

"Your sister didn't seem offended by my presence."

Xenia made a tisking sound. "Again, I expected more from you, Dimitri. Use that mind of yours, if you've still _got_ one." She put out the stub of her cigarette; it made a light _sizzle_. "Olga is a romantic-minded woman who has always had a soft spot for her favorite niece's wants. She felt from the start Alexandra did not give enough to her youngest child, especially, and would – to make up for it – let her godchild have anything she wanted, if it was in her power. And if what Anastasia wants now is _you_ , well, certainly Olga means to give her her own way."

And what was so wrong with that? Dimitri wondered. Didn't Anastasia deserve to be happy after losing everything? Why did her family need to harp so on the source of that happiness? Couldn't they just be glad to have her back and simply do their best to put up with him in exchange for that miracle? For Anastasia, he would have put up with _anything_. Why wouldn't _they_?

"But Olga," Xenia went on, "has only the _standing_ in the family – not the finances. She is poorer than she lets on, and it's her paintings – which are actually remarkably good, you may recall she used to teach all of her nieces to paint, including my own daughter, though she never showed much talent for it; Felix certainly didn't marry her for her _artistic_ abilities – that keep her and her husband in their lavish hotels. And only just barely.

"She can put Anastasia forward, she can have the family throw her a ball, but she cannot support her beyond that.

"That task falls upon _me_ , and that is little obstacle for Anastasia, as I will gladly support my own blood." She stared at him long and hard. "That does not include you."

"Yet," Dimitri argued, "you're offering me ten million rubles."

"Only to be rid of you, and to thank you for your years of service to my brother, and for bringing my niece home." She spoke now as if she was speaking to an imbecile. "That is not an annual income, and I will hear no more about it following payment – part of our agreement will be that you never attempt to contact us again."

"There will _be_ no agreement," Dimitri insisted.

"Oh, I think there will be," she said. "You haven't any supporters in this matter you can count on. You shall have to see it my way in the end."

" _Felix_ ," he tried next. "He didn't take issue with me."

"My son-in-law is an attention seeker – he would vouch for Lenin himself if the man laughed at his jokes and smiled charmingly at him at dinner." She shrugged. "So _what_ if Felix likes you? He could shout your praises from the top of the Eiffel Tower and it wouldn't change a thing. He is also _frivolous_ ; he will forget you quickly."

"Anastasia is my wife – I could never abandon her."

"If only you'd had common sense, poor boy," Xenia remarked. "Marrying her to get her out of the country wasn't your mistake, _acting_ on that marriage was. You should have understood any such union would need to be annulled eventually – that the woman you married as a commoner in Russia wasn't yours to keep after you brought her forward as a princess."

"And, by this, you're _saying_...?"

"I'm saying it's plain to everyone who looks at you together for longer than five seconds that you've been intimate. The union was consummated, do you deny that?"

In other circumstances, he might have blushed, or fumbled with his words, but he was so damned angry that he simply didn't bother being embarrassed. He'd been with his wife; there was no sin in that.

" _Nyet_ ," he confirmed, looking her right in the eyes when he said it. "I don't deny it." Not that it was any of her business.

"All the more reason to get you out of the picture – the fewer people who can work that out, the better." Xenia grimaced. "Leopold is already telling people you were taking improper liberties with her in the coatroom and she was wantonly allowing it." Her hands suddenly shook rather violently, the first sign of genuine emotion she'd shown since arriving. "The fat, power-faced, gossiping _boar_! Can't keep his ever-running mouth shut to save his life, let alone the family reputation."

"You're wasting your time." Exhaling heavily, Dimitri added, more vulnerably than he meant to, "Why are you so convinced I'm bad for Anastasia?"

Without a word, Xenia leaned forward and dropped her teacup on the floor, spilling the remaining liquid and severing the handle from the rest of the cup.

Thoughtlessly, Dimitri swooped down to clean up the mess. When he glanced back up at her, one eyebrow was arched and her hands were suddenly still again, no longer shaking.

" _That's_ why," she said quietly, staring down at him huddled on the floor picking up the broken china pieces and wiping at the carpet.

"She needs me." He stood up, straightening himself. "She has...after what happened..." How to explain her nightmares, how they needed each other for comfort because of their shared loss? It was so vexing, this effort; the words wouldn't finish forming.

"And have her problems gotten better or worse since coming here?"

"Better," he admitted, grudgingly.

"And _yours_?"

His lips sealed themselves tight. He wouldn't tell this woman, so obviously trying to trap him, that his own nightmares had only increased, probably from stress, as of late. Only Anya, who could console him without a word, simply by rolling over in bed and touching him, reminding him she was there, needed to know about that. They'd never even told Vlad and Sophie.

But it was as if Xenia could read his mind. "I _thought_ so." Pursing her own lips, she added, "Seems to me, you need her more than she needs you."

"You have no right," he began.

"Listen, young man, I didn't want it to come to this," Xenia warned him, "but when the carrot is ineffective, one must resort to the stick. I have other means of changing your mind."

" _Do_ you now?" Dimitri wandered over to the unlit fireplace and rested his elbows on the mantelpiece. His head was throbbing, reaching up, he dug the center of his thumb into his left temple, rubbing hard.

"Tell me," she said slowly, "if I were to make some inquires, about your former life in Russia, would I by any chance find written or public record of your marriage, not to my niece, but rather to one Irina Alexandrovna – a harlot turned innkeeper?"

Blanching, he looked up, mouth agape.

Despite the fact that his marriage to Irina had been a farce, there were papers, namely his own forgeries. The very ones Irina had shown Anya. He'd made them convincing, and in so doing might have just damned himself.

Xenia did not have those documents and pictures, but given a few weeks and finding a way to contact Irina, Dimitri had no doubts that the woman he'd lived with for seven years would unhesitatingly sell them to this Romanov and even offer to testify that she had been his lawful wife. She'd do _anything_ to get money in her pockets; or, better still, out of Russia. Of this, he had no doubt. In some ways he knew Irina as well as if he _had_ been her husband.

Worse, Irina's father was still alive. If Xenia got in touch with _him_...

He shuddered to think of the smear campaign that would follow. It would be directed at himself at first, then spill over to Anya.

Anya might, when the debacle was finally over, have lost everything. Her Aunt Olga might stand by her, no matter what, but what of the other members of her family? Even Yusupov might see it as too big a scandal to attach himself to: a woman claiming to be Anastasia Romanov, the cousin of his wife, living in sin with a married man who'd left a jilted wife languishing in a hostel in communist Russia?

Anya would never give him up, even in the face of the vilest attack, no matter how much it could hurt her claim. Dimitri knew _this_ , also.

And so did Xenia.

"You're blackmailing me," he said flatly.

"That'll be the stick."

"And if I say it's not enough?"

"You worked at a brothel for a short time, did you not?"

"As a cook's assistant."

"And I take it your Irina was employed there as well?"

"She's _not '_ my Irina'," he hissed.

"Do you think, provided I find this Irina woman, she would paint an upstanding image of your time there? Who _knows_? She might even say you were dismissed from employment there after being caught in a compromising position with yet another prostitute."

"I was dismissed because it was a temporary job and my time was up, no other reason."

"Perhaps that is true," she agreed. " _I_ believe you, actually, for the little it will matter. But the question you must ask yourself, Dimitri, is this: _Will_ it matter very much, if I have witnesses who are prepared to say otherwise? Who will the other Romanovs – let alone the public masses – believe? I got this information, this surface knowledge that's making you look so very pale as we speak, after only _two days_. How much more do you think I can dig up if you don't cooperate with me?"

He slumped back against the mantelpiece. _Now_ what? "You win," he murmured, after a long, dark pause. "I'll leave her."

"I'll still give you the ten million, of course," Xenia reminded him. "You'll have lost nothing."

Nothing except Anya. "I don't want your money."

"What _do_ you want, then?"

"Unfortunately, nothing you can give."

Xenia became sympathetic again. "You still believe I'm being cruel, but I'm not – I'm encouraging you to do what's best for Anastasia."

So blackmailing had turned into 'encouraging', had it? Full of contempt, his bloodshot brown eyes met her cold blue ones. Was she seriously trying to alleviate her conscience now?

" _Nicky_ was cruel," she sighed. "He never should have taken you from the kitchens in the Catherine Palace – think of all you'd have been spared if he'd simply left you in your rightful place."

Gritting his teeth, Dimitri growled, "I have two conditions."

"Oh?"

"Firstly, Anastasia will be taken care of," he insisted, no-nonsense. "I promised Alexei, a long time ago, that I'd take care of her – if you break that promise for me, I _will_ come back and find you."

"Done." She didn't even blink. "She is my niece; I never intended not to provide for her. But, remember, Dimitri, you will have no further contact with any living Romanov, so long as she is adequately looked after by us."

He felt as if he'd just taken a bayonet to the stomach. Closing his eyes, he whispered, "Agreed."

"You said _two_ conditions."

He opened his eyes. "You will _never_ tell her I didn't take the money you offered."

This plainly puzzled her. "Why on earth _not_?"

"Because," he said distantly, already lost. Xenia had just done what even nearly a decade in Soviet Russia, living an absurd charade day in and day out, hadn't succeed in; she'd finally broken him. "Just _because_."

"You seem in an unfit state to see me to the door," Xenia declared, gathering up her purse and clutching it to herself again as she rose from the sofa. "I'll show myself out, shall I?"

Dimitri didn't answer, leaving the manner of Xenia's exit entirely up to her.

He was too busy thinking of the _other_ answer, the one he also had not given when she asked.

_Because, if Anya knows I didn't accept your bribe, that I do this unwillingly, she'll come looking for me._


	51. Dimitri Leaves

_Dimitri Leaves_

Anya was perplexed. When she returned from _The Neva Club_ , breathless and raring to tell Dimitri all about her day (she had run into – and been recognized by – an aristocrat she had not seen since the night Rasputin was killed and Dimitri was taken from the kitchens to become Alexei's companion; a soft-spoken older gentleman with an unruly-looking mustache and brilliant green eyes), only for her husband to respond in a way that, even at its most charitable, could only be described as apathetic.

She found him upstairs in bed with a cool-cloth draped over his eyes.

When she bounded into the room, her heels sinking into the thick carpet, and opened the curtains a quarter of an inch, he moaned and rolled over, tossing the cloth aside and using his right arm to cover his face.

"Are you all right?" she'd asked, not particularly surprised that he'd been napping, but certainly stunned by his lack of interest in her return.

Dimitri claimed to have a headache. Sympathetic to his plight, she drew the curtains, closing them back up tightly so light couldn't seep into the room, and asked if there was anything she could get him.

" _Nyet_ ," he grunted distantly without opening his eyes. "I just want to be alone."

It wasn't until she had left the guestroom, quietly closing the door behind her, and made her way back downstairs that Anya realized what Dimitri's manner reminded her of – why it unnerved her so.

She had acted almost exactly the same in The House of Special Purpose, lying in bed with a sick headache of her own. It was the day they painted over the windows. The day she had very nearly given up all hope. It had seemed a distinct possibility that she would never see Dimitri again, or even learn what became of him, and she'd been attacked by that awful guard in the lavatory, something she'd found – at the time – increasingly difficult to cope with, much less get over. So _of course_ she had been despairing, unable to get out of bed without the benefit of Alexei's pestering her...

Only, what could be upsetting _Dimitri_ to such a dramatic degree _now_? They were finally here, in Paris, and he'd done what he said he would – he'd reunited her with her family. They were not currently in any serious quarrel. So why...?

What could he possibly be keeping from her that was doing this to him? It couldn't have anything to do with that bill Irina sent, Anya didn't think. But what else remotely unsettling had happened recently?

As far as she knew, nothing at all.

Why wouldn't he let her in? If he would only say what the matter _was_ , perhaps she could _help_!

Then again, what if she was simply reading too much into this? What if he really _did_ only have a bad headache and want rest? What if she was mistakenly projecting her own anxieties onto him, and he was _fine_?

Anya didn't believe that, not for a moment, but she tried to convince herself of it all the same.

At least until the following day, when Dimitri's headache seemed to be gone but his attitude was no better.

He barely spoke to her, even though he swore he wasn't angry, or ate much of anything at mealtimes. Not even the fancy tea-cakes Mariette brought out late in the afternoon tempted him.

He was also uncharacteristically unaffectionate with her. When she tried to breach this strange and sudden physical distance he'd set between them, Dimitri shied away from her touch.

Upon being questioned why, he quietly responded that he wasn't in the mood.

This distant behavior continued for the next few days, until – the very day of the ball Aunt Olga was throwing to reintroduce Anya into society as a Romanov – he suddenly woke up a completely changed man.

Anya felt as if she'd somehow gone back in time to before she and Dimitri realized they were attracted to each other, during their childhood days in the Catherine Palace when they had gotten used to – and grown to like – one another (since he'd been Alexei's companion for a good while by that point), but hadn't even the slightest of romantic inclinations.

His teasing that day was so _chaste_ , almost brotherly.

While he was still remained _physically_ distant with her, in all other respects his old manner and friendliness had magically returned. No longer dour in manner but outright _merry_ , he was joking with her and wanting to spend as much time as possible with her, deliberately going out of his way to do so.

He even came along to the dress-fitting Sophie, Aunt Olga, and Aunt Xenia dragged her to, despite not being invited.

The seamstresses and fitters gave Dimitri a funny look when they saw him enter with the ladies. He shrugged at them, as if to ask if it was really any concern of theirs how he spent his day, and they proceeded to mostly ignore him from then on out.

But it was the look he exchanged with _Aunt Xenia_ that Anya found more puzzling than his presence at the fitting.

When Xenia first noticed him there, her expression was rather stern, and she raised an eyebrow in a manner that was more furiously demanding – even downright _put out_ – than quizzical. Dimitri's response was the slightest of nods, which – for some reason – changed Xenia's demeanor entirely. Her facial expression softened and she seemed to be much kinder to him throughout the duration of the afternoon.

Strangest of all, Xenia's obvious disapproval seemed to have vanished. If he smiled at Anya, or was caught staring at her overlong, she didn't frown; she looked almost sympathetic.

Anya had no time to ponder this, however, as the court dress for the ball was being brought out. It was a lovely thing: shimmering rosy satin with long, draping sleeves that almost ran the full length of the dress itself.

Xenia's frown returned at the sight of Anya twirling and giggling in the dress.

"Good heavens, it's _pink_! We specifically requested _goldenrod yellow_ ," she sighed, shaking her head at the horrendous level of incompetence, her glare darting over the seamstresses, letting them all know how miserably they'd failed. "Oh, Olga, didn't I tell you we'd have done better to get it checked _before_ today? Now there's no time to–"

Olga was smiling softly, watching her niece spin in front of the floor-length mirrors. "She looks like her mother."

"Nonsense." Xenia's face reddened slightly, doubtless unable to shake the embarrassment of her niece's imminent appearance in court wearing the wrong color dress. "She looks like a strawberry cupcake in that shade of pink."

So softly Anya almost didn't hear it, Dimitri whispered, "She looks like a princess."

* * *

Dimitri waited until Anya went to take her bath before reaching under the guestroom bed and drawing out the suitcase he had packed and hidden there earlier.

His deal with Xenia was that he would be gone by the end of tonight, and that he would not escort his wife to this ball. Tonight, Anya would be Anastasia Romanov again and she would be free of him, forever believing he'd wanted money more than her.

He snapped open the suitcase to place one more item inside.

For a large portion of the week, most of which he'd spent in deep depression in anticipation of this moment, he'd inwardly debated if he should take anything to remember her by.

For nine years after the revolution, he'd kept his little mementos, let himself sink into memories on the occasions they proved too strong for him to resist. But that was different. He'd believed she was dead. Now he knew she was alive, and it seemed _wrong_ , somehow, to wallow over a living girl – a princess high above him, the way she was always supposed to be.

He'd read once, somewhere, a line written by some poet (or so he thought, though he couldn't be _sure_ it hadn't been prose) that each person could never be more or less than who they were. He didn't know who it was that said that, but they were right. He could never be more than a quick-thinking, impertinent servant, and Anastasia, as he'd seen at her fitting today, could never be less than a princess.

It wasn't some cold memory, faint as a cloud-blocked moonbeam, of a grand duchess he wanted to take with him. _Nyet_. What he needed, in order to move on, was a time capsule; a snapshot of Anya as she was now, before she became that princess again.

So he'd taken a picture off of the wall of the room leading into the parlor. Sophie kept a growing number of family photographs hanging there, including surprisingly candid shots of the late dowager empress. The photograph Dimitri more or less _stole_ was a recent addition to that wall: a picture of Anya in one of her Chanel suits, standing on the stairs with her hand on her hip, a tiny triangle of light refracted from a nearby windowpane visible on her lower chin; her hair was up but with a few strands coming loose.

Sliding the photograph out of its fine silver frame (he refused to steal _that_ , as it was obviously expensive), he placed it carefully between two vests and under a pair of brown pants.

He removed a worn, battered-looking, circular object from where he'd stashed it atop three pairs of black woolen socks, placing it on his pillow. Then he removed his wedding ring, ignoring the bittersweet resistance it put to coming off his finger.

With that, he clicked the suitcase closed again, picked it up by the handle, walked out the door.

He could hear the sound of water running coming from the bathroom, and traces of a melody – Anya was singing while she bathed, apparently.

She would be disappointed to emerge from her bath and find him gone, but he tried to convince himself she'd get over it. They'd find her a better husband, in time, and as long as he didn't ever have to know who that husband _was_ he could (probably) live with that.

Let her think him selfish and greedy and faithless. Let her be glad she was free.

This was what was best for her.

She would be protected from any further scandal with him gone. She would be in her rightful place. It was the perfect end to a less-than-perfect fairy-tale that had, right up until this moment, brought twice as much misery as it did joy to all its players.

Dimitri had timed his exit well. Neither Vlad nor Sophie were able to catch him leaving, giving him no need for awkward goodbyes, or – worse still – a chance to change his mind and go back on his word to Xenia.

He could still hear her singing. Bringing his right hand to his mouth, he blew a kiss in the direction of the bathroom. He did so thrice. _Goodbye, Anya. Goodbye, Anastasia Nicholaevna. Goodbye, favorite sister of Alexei Romanov. Ya ochen lyublyu tebya._ I love you very much.

The one being in the house he was not able to elude, however, was the cat. Kiki blocked his way to the door. She didn't yowl, or even mew, just looked at him in that pitiful, head-tilted way only a tame house-cat can manage – the way that could break an already broken heart with little more than a glance.

"So long, cat." Dimitri knelt down and stroked her fur. "I can't stay; I don't belong here."

Straightening up, he sidestepped the cat as she attempted to press herself against his legs, made his way out the door, then ever so quietly – with the lightest of _click_ s – shut it behind himself.

* * *

After stepping out of the bath and slipping on a blue-silk kimono, Anya made her way down the hall to the guestroom.

She found it empty, save for her own things, such as the pink court dress that had almost given Aunt Xenia cardiac arrest earlier, still spread out on her side of the bed where she'd left it.

On Dimitri's pillow, she found two circles, one large and one small, the littler inside of the bigger.

His wedding garland and his wedding band.

Not wanting to believe it, Anya shakily made a dash for the closet, checking where he kept his things. Those which he wore on an everyday basis, articles of clothing that were the least fancy from what Vlad and Sophie paid for, were gone.

She checked the drawers for his underwear and socks.

Gone, too.

Irina's letter.

Gone.

The cufflinks she'd asked Sophie to get him for tonight.

Still there.

His everyday shoes.

Gone.

His old greatcoat with new lining sewn in.

 _Gone_.

Defeated and shocked, she slunk back to the bed and sat down. Reaching over, she picked up his wedding ring and dumbly stared at it in her hand for a few uncomprehending moments.

It wasn't until she glanced down at the garland again, and found a single brown hair stuck to the frayed silver thread, that she finally broke down and cried.

* * *

Aunt Xenia came over, less than an hour before the ball, took a seat on the parlor sofa, and explained everything.

She confessed to having had some reservations about Dimitri from the start and said that she had decided, finally, to deal with the issue by offering him the sum of ten million rubles in exchange for leaving her niece and thus sparing the Romanov family a great deal of embarrassment.

Anya's reaction was, at first, stony. "Was this the same ten million offered for my safe return by Grandmama?"

"Much of it, yes," Xenia admitted. "Some of the original ten million became my inheritance after she died, which is why I was in a position to offer it to Dimitri."

Shrinking back into an upholstered fringed chair, the same one her husband had sat in during their first conversation with Sophie and Vlad in this parlor, Anya suddenly became more than merely stony – she'd grown dangerously quiet.

Xenia tried, vainly, to fill in the ensuing silence. "I know it must _hurt_ , Anastasia, but if you really think about it Dimitri has – in a round about way – done you a good turn, leaving now, and–"

"Auntie," said Anya, her voice deadpan. "Will you do something for me?"

"Why, _anything_ , child," she exclaimed in surprise. "What is it you want?"

"Please never mention Dimitri's name to me again."

* * *

Dimitri had no problem making his way to the train station; a taxi he'd hailed two blocks from Sophie's house took him there directly for an appropriately small fare.

The trouble was where to go once he arrived there. For some reason, the man running the ticket booth didn't accept "As far from Paris as I can get in one night," as a destination.

Then there was the question of _ultimate destination_. He could take a steamer to England or America.

Except, in both cases, the thought of having to speak – and, worse, _read_ – English every single day made him grimace and go rather pale. There were other cities in France; places where he could probably find work, though not as easily as in Paris, and get away with speaking French with a heavy Russian accent.

But he could hardly go anywhere like that tonight. Perhaps, for a start, he could pick a small French country village. Arrive there late, stay at an inn, then quietly be on his way come morning.

Only which _one_? He didn't know the difference, at least from the _names_ , between charmingly rustic little tourist villages and towns that literally consisted of two families and five cows total, whose inhabitants would be more likely to take him for a cattle thief and shoot him on sight than put him up for an evening.

While he struggled to make up his mind, he decided to leave his luggage with the stationmaster.

It was a warm evening, so Dimitri shrugged off his greatcoat and draped it over the single suitcase, placing it under the open window of the stationmaster's office.

"Please," he said, "don't let me forget this."


	52. Anya Leaves

_Anya Leaves_

Just beyond the curtain from which Anya – dripping with costly jewels (mostly diamonds) and wearing a heavy tiara that made the base of her head throb under its weight – peeked out, lay the world into which she was born.

The royal world of glittering jewels and fine titles.

A world she'd thought, for nine years, she would never enter again.

For some reason, it was not beckoning to her the way it ought to have been.

If Papa, Mama, and her siblings stood in that ballroom, awaiting her return, she would dash in without a second thought, but only for want of _them_ , not for any wealth or titles.

Only, of course, they weren't there. They'd been murdered right in front of her nearly a decade ago.

 _Aunt Xenia_ was there, dancing with princes half her age, presiding over the festivities in her swirling, peacock-blue silken skirts, even though it was really _Aunt Olga's_ ball; _she_ had only helped finance it.

But what good was Aunt Xenia to her? It was nice to have _any_ family, but that didn't change the fact that Anya's affections had cooled towards this woman since her confession earlier.

True, Dimitri had made his own choice, and so she didn't _blame_ her aunt for his abandonment. Yet it still struck her as heartless to have offered him that money in the first place. What sort of woman was this, who would tempt someone who had once been very poor with an insane amount of rubles, when she might have just left well enough alone? Wasn't having her niece back _enough_? Why had she gone and meddled like that?

Anya didn't feel relieved to be rid of someone so faithless. She felt like she'd been passed around and traded like a valuable Russian doll. She felt empty and utterly alone.

That was why she never wanted to talk – or hear anything – about him again. She might not be able to make herself stop thinking about Dimitri, but she could erase his name from every place that was _not_ inside of her head.

And then, with _time_...

A hand grazed her shoulder from behind, making her jump.

Anya whirled around, surprised to find Aunt Olga standing there with a concerned, even slightly overwrought, look on her face.

"Child, before you go out there..." She reached over and lightly pulled Anya's hand away from the curtains, her heavy velvet burgundy gown swishing as she moved with purpose. "We should talk – there are some things you must know."

"Auntie, I really should..." Anya motioned with her chin at the closed curtain. "They're all waiting for me – the family, the press..." Everyone except the one person who'd heartlessly left her without so much as a goodbye. "I can't..."

"Just listen," she told her gently. "There is something Xenia ought to say to you, only she's made two promises that prevent her from breaching this subject."

Despite how blasé she was trying to be, Anya's eyes automatically widened with curiosity.

"She promised you she would never mention your husband's name to you again."

Anya's expression darkened, her eyes rapidly narrowing. "He's not my husband – not anymore." After all, how much clearer could his leaving his garland and ring behind have made his feelings? They were no longer the one soul the priest had joined together back in Russia.

"She also promised _him_ something."

"Yes." She threw her head back, a little haughtily, knocking her tiara slightly askew in the process. "I'm sure he wanted any number of promises, to make sure he got that reward money in a timely fashion. I imagine he's probably off spending it as fast as he can."

"No _so_ fast," Olga sighed, her tone wavering between empathy and impatience. "He can hardly spend what he doesn't _have_."

Anya recoiled. " _What_?"

"My darling, he _didn't_ take the money – you weren't to know it, because he made Xenia promise never to tell you that."

"Then _why_ would he–?"

"My sister can be very persuasive, especially when she is convinced of the rightness of her actions."

Her heart thudding, Anya whispered, "How do you know this?"

"Xenia broke down and confessed to me not twenty minutes ago," she explained. "She wasn't prepared for your reaction when she came to comfort you after Dimitri's leaving – she is not a woman used to being led about by her heart, but she is more sentimental towards you than she shows, or cares to admit. She was... _overconfident_...in this matter."

Glancing down at her pink court dress, Anya remembered the look exchanged between her husband and aunt at the fitting. They'd spoken behind her back – not about mere money, but about her future; that much was obviously true.

"Auntie Olga, I don't know what to do." Her eyes filled with tears. "My family is out there." What was _left_ of it, anyway; little though she knew them now, little though they understood her now.

"Yes, but your family is also at the train station, doubtless getting ready to leave Paris as we speak."

"There never was any chance of having _both_ , was there?" Anya realized.

"I'd hoped there might be," Olga admitted, reaching out and brushing a tear off her niece's cheek. "You have no idea how much I'd hoped that for you."

"But there isn't," Anya said dully, her ears beginning to ring from the strain.

"Perhaps not."

"Auntie, I don't want to lose you – I've only just got you back."

She pulled her into an embrace. "You'll _never_ lose me, Anastasia. Whatever you choose, we will always have each other."

"How?"

"We will keep in touch – what's one more little secret between us?"

Anya pulled away, smiling through her tears. "But... Can I really just walk away from what I was born into?"

"You were, perhaps, born into it too _late_ – the world is steadily moving on from its phase of kings and queens. We last few Romanovs cling to the land of yesterday, to our titles and opulent lifestyle we can scarcely still afford, only because we have no other way of living." She nodded very somberly and arched a brow. "But is that true of you, _Anya_?"

It wasn't. She could survive without being a princess; she'd proven that much to herself already. In a way, she wasn't really even a Romanov anymore. She was the wife of the man who'd left Sophie's house this evening with a suitcase and a heavy heart.

The man who'd had no right to try and make this choice _for_ her.

It was hers to choose, her very own difficult choice to make, and she realized then – looking into her Aunt's kind, forgiving eyes – she'd already made it.

With remarkably steady hands, a strength brought on from knowing the absolute rightness of what she now chose, she took the diamond tiara off her head and placed it, gingerly, in Aunt Olga's lap.

Her aunt snagged her hand and squeezed it tightly before letting her go. "God bless you, my precious little one."

* * *

When Dimitri went to retrieve his belongings, the stationmaster seemed to be trying – badly – to conceal a smirk.

He told him, politely enough, where his suitcase and coat had been placed, awaiting him in the same condition he'd left them, but there was a definite twinkle in the man's eye Dimitri didn't understand.

That is, until he saw there was a small person sitting on his suitcase. This person wore his greatcoat, despite the warmth of the evening and the evident fact that it was too large for them, and a plaid babushka was wrapped around their head.

" _Hey_!" he snapped, turning towards them with his arm outstretched as if to shoo them off. "What do you think you're doing?"

The person – he could tell it was a woman now – turned slowly and lowered the babushka, letting a shock of tumbling red curls spill out.

_Anya._

Her blue eyes flashed. "How dare you!" She held out a glittering gold circle. "How _dare_ you just _leave_ me like that?" Shaking her hand for emphasis, she thrust out the ring clutched between her fingers more insistently. "You put this back on _right now_ , and don't _ever_ let me catch you taking it off again!"

He gawked at her, dazedly. What was she _doing_ here? She was supposed to be at the ball, being reintroduced into royal society.

"Don't just stare at me with your mouth open," she growled, rising up and taking a few steps closer to him. Through the slits of his unbuttoned greatcoat, he could glimpse flashes of shimmering pink; she was still wearing her court dress under it. "I'm so damned angry, you have no _idea_."

Honestly, Dimitri hadn't even realized his mouth _had_ dropped open. "Dusha, I–"

"Don't 'Dusha' _me_ , Dimitri Viktorovich!" She dropped the ring unceremoniously into his – now outstretched – hand. "You know perfectly well we still owe each other nine years."

After nine miserable years of being apart, they deserved nine more together, at the very _least_ – and _he_ had been the one to say it, back in his room at _The Sunbeam_.

He had _no right_ to go back on his word now. No right whatsoever. Whatever he'd promised Xenia, his promise to _her_ predated it.

Anya scowled at his fumbling attempt to counter this indisputable fact with choked words that wouldn't form. "I don't want to hear another word about it." Stepping backwards, she lifted his suitcase by the handle. "You're coming home with me tonight, or I'm getting on a train with you in less than ten minutes."

"My leaving, giving you this chance," he finally managed, clutching his wedding band tightly in the palm of his right hand while stubbornly making no motion to put it back on his finger, "is what's best for you, Anya."

She dropped the suitcase with a _thud_ on the hard platform and stomped back over to him. "The Grand Duchess _Anastasia Nicholaevna Romanova_ would beg to disagree!"

With that, she flung herself into his arms, kissing him passionately until he gave in and returned the gesture.

When they broke apart, several minutes later, he bit back a relieved grin, slid his wedding ring back on, and – just like the heroes at the end of Olga Alexandrovna's English Romance books – scooped her up and spun her around.

Setting an elated Anya back down onto the platform, he offered her his arm.

She took it, and together they walked off, their departing figures vanishing in the billowing gray smoke of a just-arrived train and their voices faded under the conductor's hearty call of " _All aboard_!"

And, officially, the young woman who'd registered more than once as _Anya Vagonov_ in Russia, yet – with the support of her husband, a former servant to the imperial family – claimed to be Anastasia Romanov in Paris, was never seen nor heard from again.


	53. Viktor & The Man in the Black Fedora

_Viktor & The Man in the Black Fedora_

_Seventeen Years Later..._

The man is outside again; a tall figure in the dark, wearing an ink-black fedora.

This is the third time this month Dimitri has caught sight of him. The second he's seen him near the house.

The mysterious figure whose long shadow has been flickering in his peripheral vision.

Swallowing hard, he turns from the window and checks the dresser drawer, second from the top, to make sure the pistol he keeps there is loaded and ready in case he needs to use it.

He has no _proof_ , of course, that the man's here for Viktor – that anyone in Russia even knows of the boy's existence – but he's always prepared. Sometimes he jumps out of bed and reaches for the pistol if a tree branch hits the window on a windy night. Maybe if Viktor were a girl – or if he simply looked a little less like Anya's side of the family – he'd be able to let down his guard and relax once in a while. But as matters stand, Viktor is growing into a perfect double for Alexei Romanov, the last Tsarevich of Russia (he even suffers from the same affliction as his unfortunate uncle), and Dimitri's gut tells him its only a matter of time before someone dangerous works it out.

The last time he saw the figure currently on his lawn was at the park. Viktor was confined to his wheelchair after a bleeding episode caused by an accidental bump against a desk during school hours, but he'd still wanted to take the fresh air and watch the other boys play rugby. Dimitri had felt he could hardly deny him that much. However, when he wandered off from his son for a few moments to smoke a cigarette, he saw the man in the fedora – his face shadowed, as always – intently watching Viktor through the trees. He even acted like he might approach him, evidently changing his mind at the last minute.

The one hope Dimitri had clung to was that Audrey Emery's unexpected presence at the park might have thrown fedora-man off the trail.

Despite how things turned out, Audrey still adores Viktor. So _naturally_ she had gotten out of her car the moment she noticed Viktor's wheelchair, running over to hug the boy and plant a kiss on his cheek.

A lot of people in this nosy French village actually assume Audrey is Viktor's mother; it's a rumor Dimitri likes to encourage among the locals. If the wrong people start asking around, the neighbors can't tell them what they don't know themselves.

Mostly, they just know about the messy divorce, and they're too polite to ask Audrey how long she was married or if there's a history of hemophilia in her family.

Perhaps they'd have found a way to breach the subject eventually if Audrey were one of their own, except she's anything _but_.

She's an American on a French student visa.

Which wouldn't have mattered if the marriage hadn't gone down the drain after less than a year.

Now there's no telling when she'll have to leave France and return to Palm Beach, Florida. Viktor is still pretty upset about it, but Dimitri considers Audrey's pending deportation the least of his many daily worries. Audrey's parents are _insanely_ wealthy – so it's not like she'll be on the street, eating out of the trash, when she goes back.

Obviously, the man wasn't fooled like he'd hoped. Or else he wouldn't be lurking outside their house like a creepy stalker now.

The fedora-topped figure disappears, slinking away from the window's broad view of the front lawn, into deeper shadows.

Dimitri's eyes slide from the glass pane to the photograph in the iron filigree frame. It's the one he stole from Sophie's house seventeen years ago.

Sighing, Dimitri comes to a decision.

He reaches for two already packed suitcases under his bed, sliding them out. Then he goes through the adjoining door into Viktor's room.

Viktor has bunk beds. He sleeps on the bottom bunk. The top is where Dimitri sleeps whenever Viktor is sick, or having a bad bleeding episode, and needs his father there all night; which happens more often than either of them is happy about.

He shakes Viktor awake. "How would you like to stay at the vacation cottage for a few days?"

Blinking blearily, Viktor yawns, "What _time_ is it, Papa?"

"Almost four in the morning," he lies (it's actually closer to one or two AM). "I thought we'd get an early start."

Viktor is a very deep sleeper and he isn't a morning person (he's a lot like his father used to be in that regard), but he loves the vacation cottage – it's the house where they used to live until he was ten, before Mama died; she's buried near there. It's hard to believe it's been five years since they lost her.

"Can we visit Mama's grave?"

"Every day, if you like," Dimitri promises. He'd like to see it again, too – it's been too long since their last visit, and he's missing the sight of it.

"I'll be ready to leave at six," Viktor tries, rolling over and burying his face in his pillow.

Unfortunately, that is another trait Viktor unknowingly shares with his late uncle – he's a bit spoiled. Only, his father is in no mood to indulge him today. He's anxious to put as much distance between them and their fedora-wearing stalker as possible by first light.

So, Dimitri snorts and yanks back the covers. "Viktor Dmitrievich, you will be ready to leave this house in _five minutes_!"

"Okay, okay," he gives in sulkily, reaching over the side of the bunk, searching for his cane, which Dimitri already has ready and hands him.

" _Up_ ," he says emphatically, brow raised. "Now."

Viktor mutters a French curse word as he shifts his bruised leg out of the bunk and his bare feet touch the cold floor.

It still seems strange to Dimitri, even after fifteen years, that he doesn't speak Russian with his own son. At least not full sentences. Most of their conversations are in broken French with the odd Russian idiosyncrasy tossed in.

They are still Russian Orthodox, so of course Dimitri prays in Russian before their meals and on Holy Days.

Viktor _has_ picked up a couple of easy words here and there; he can say 'thank you' and 'I love you very much' in Russian. Dimitri still smiles every time Viktor says the latter, with his bad French accent and slight lisp that would have appalled his imperial grandparents, God rest their souls.

And, in the way of many children, Viktor's first word was _no_. He could say it in Russian, French, _and_ English by the time he was three. His pronunciation of ' _nyet_ ' is flawless, probably from such frequent usage.

After Viktor is up and dressed, Dimitri carries him out to the car and helps him into the backseat. He's had to carry Viktor just as often as he had to carry Alexei back when he was employed as the tsarevich's companion, if not more.

From the moment poor Anya discovered their baby had started bleeding through his navel, and ran to Dimitri sobbing with a blotted handkerchief clutched in her right hand, he'd known it was all starting again.

He knew he would spend his life taking care of another hemophiliac, bearing an uncanny resemblance to the first, praying each night that _this one_ would survive into adulthood.

He tries not to think too hard about the fact that Viktor is, now, the exact same age his uncle was when he was killed in that basement in Yekaterinburg. Dwelling on that uncomfortable detail gives him nightmares.

There's no sign of the man in the fedora. He seems to really have left. Dimitri exhales, relieved, and gets into the driver's side of the car.

* * *

They've driven for an hour before Viktor suddenly speaks. "Papa?"

"Yes, are you all right?" Dimitri has a bad habit of looking back at his son while driving, especially whenever the boy says anything or moans or makes noise of any kind, and a worse habit of nearly always jumping to the assumption that his child is in mortal peril.

It rarely occurs to him, even though it's most often the case, that Viktor isn't in any pain, hasn't bruised or cut himself; he just wants to ask him a question.

"Papa, the _road_ ," Viktor reminds him pointedly.

Dimitri turns his head back to the front. "Oh, _shit_!" He's almost collided with another car, narrowly missing the impeding impact.

"That was close," Viktor puts in unhelpfully.

"Well, what is it?" Dimitri's a bit annoyed now, and it comes through in his tone.

"There's _no_ chance you and Audrey are getting back together?"

"You know there isn't," he sighs.

"That's a shame – I like her."

"So do I," he admits, gently rounding a curb and turning onto a deserted road before glancing back at his son sympathetically. "That was the problem."

One thing Dimitri's learned about himself, something he's not particularly proud of, is that he can live with someone he hates (like Irina, during those nine miserable years in Russia) and he can live with someone he loves (like Anya), but he can't cope day in and day out with somebody he simply likes moderately and has small bouts of admiration for.

Audrey, by no fault of her own, falls firmly into that last category.

She was attractive, quite funny, and one hell of an English teacher. His English _wildly_ improved during his ill-fated courtship with her, only to become shoddy again through recent disuse. Best of all, she was _very_ good to Viktor; the furthest thing imaginable from the fairy-tale wicked stepmother.

But she still wasn't...

"It's because she isn't Mama, right?" Viktor finishes his thought, uncannily.

"Partly, yes."

"Did you break up because of the time you drank too much champagne and accidentally called her by Mama's name?"

Dimitri is surprised Viktor even _knows_ about that.

"Because that's a little unfair," Viktor presses on. "I mean, you called _everybody_ by the wrong name that night – including me."

He _did_? He doesn't remember Viktor being present for that conversation, let alone what he allegedly called him.

"What did I call you?" He's not sure he wants to know.

"Alexei, whoever that is."

 _Jesus Christ_. And _this_ is why he's given up drinking.

"Just somebody I used to work for back in Mother Russia." Dimitri hopes Viktor doesn't notice how high his voice goes when he says this, or how sweaty his palms on the wheel are. But, since Viktor notices _everything_ , he doubts it. "And, no, Audrey was forgiving about that little flub."

"Sounds like her."

Yeah, it did. Way to twist the knife in.

What _actually_ split them up was his inability to move on, or to give even half so well as he took.

Audrey bore up like a solider being called by the wrong name; she didn't even ask Dimitri to remove the picture of her predecessor from his dresser-top. But she did ask for one thing, after several months of marriage. It was the only thing she asked for, and he couldn't give it to her.

Because she was American and raised Roman Catholic, they didn't have a Russian Orthodox ceremony, and his second wedding band was worn on the left hand. Meaning he'd never had – at least not for convenience sake – to remove his first. He'd gone on wearing it on the right without the slightest interruption from something as inconsequential as a new marriage mate.

Audrey put up with this for a bit, probably taking it for an old habit he needed to be eased out of gently, then finally – several months into their marriage – asked him to remove the ring.

He said no.

She tried again, more insistently.

Again, he refused, his voice growing terse.

In tears by this point, Audrey demanded he choose – the ring on his right hand, or her.

He _did_ choose, because she said he must. But he chose his memory over their present and possible future. He didn't choose _her_.

One of the last things she said to him – as she'd gathered up her belongings and tossed them in a suitcase – was, "If you loved me, you'd have removed that ring for me," to which he'd stupidly admitted that she was right.

The hurt, utterly betrayed look on her face after his admission still haunted him sometimes, and he was truly sorry for it.

But Dimitri couldn't bring himself to make the choice she needed him to. Because in the back of his mind, he couldn't shake Anya's voice: _You put this back on_ right now _, and don't_ ever _let me catch you taking it off again!_

This hadn't been what she meant, and he knows it, but _still_.

"Let's just say," Dimitri finally tells Viktor, "that I had no business getting remarried, and I found that out the hard way." He sets his jaw and inhales deeply. "So it's just going to be you and me from now on, Vitya, like before."

Before Audrey got lost on a rainy evening and asked them for directions, and fate played a cruel joke, trying to entwine their lives in a way that could never last.

Viktor accepts this. "Will you tell me how you and Mama met?"

"Haven't I?" Dimitri asked, surprised all over again.

" _Nyet_."

Well, why _not_ , then? It is a long drive. A story – however bastardized and simplified – might help pass the time and keep his thoughts off the fedora-man.

"Your mother and I were childhood sweethearts – I worked for her family."

"Mama lied, then."

Dimitri is about ready to pull the car over. He whips his head back around. " _What_?"

Viktor shrugs – he's used to all Papa's mood swings and triggers; very little shocks him. "She told me she met you when you saved her from drowning in the Neva."

That does it.

He does pull over, and turns off the engine. "Viktor Dmitrievich, you told me you'd never heard this story."

He shakes his head, his brow raised coolly. "I said _you_ never told it to me."

That's the other thing about Viktor that drives his father crazy most days – he _looks_ like Anya's side of the family, but he _acts_ just like him. He's every bit as sneaky and smart-mouthed. With a different face, without those blue Romanov eyes to give him away, Viktor could _easily_ con an unsuspecting Bolshie.

He lifts his hand and wags his finger emphatically at his son. "Don't you _ever_ call your mother a liar in my hearing, do you understand?"

He cowers. For all his bravado and back talk, Viktor adores his Papa and doesn't like to see him angry. "Yes, Papa."

Dimitri calms down. "All right, then." He takes another deep breath. "As it happens, _both_ stories are true." Yeah, in a manner of _speaking_. "I _did_ know your mother as a child, but we were separated during the revolution. I didn't pull her out of the Neva until many years later, which was when we met again and got married."

" _Oh_." Viktor seems mollified by this information.

Dimitri starts driving again, feeling guilty. He doesn't know if he'll ever bring himself to tell Viktor the whole truth. His son should know who he really is, but it's so dangerous. He'd had a haphazard plan to take the boy to Paris on his eighteenth birthday, lead him out onto the Alexander bridge, and just sort of randomly announce that it was named for his great grandfather.

Except, now that that fateful birthday is only three years off, the whole idea seems incredibly stupid and badly planned out.

* * *

When they arrive, shortly after sunrise, they immediately begin taking dust-caked sheets off the furniture.

There are so many insistent memories in this house, Dimitri's glad for the distraction of the dust clouds and musty air, the need to stop looking at everything and open a window before they suffocate in here.

When he turns back around, he catches Viktor looking too long at a chair by the unlit fireplace.

It's understandable. That's the last spot Viktor ever saw his mother alive. She was sitting there, knitting something for his baby sister (a little girl who would have been named Marie, if only she'd lived long enough to take more than one gasping breath before joining her dearly departed Mama in the afterlife) when her labor pains came on about two weeks too early.

Anya had dropped her knitting and begun to cry, placing her hands protectively over her protruding belly.

Viktor had had a recent accident and couldn't get up without help, so he wasn't able to follow his parents upstairs.

It hadn't occurred to Dimitri to come back for Viktor afterward. Men and boys weren't usually welcome during deliveries, in those days; even _he_ ended up outside the room when the midwife showed up and chased him off, ignoring his vehement – and eventually _hoarse_ – complaint that it was _his_ room too and she had no _right_.

It wasn't until Vlad and Sophie showed up, with none other than Aunt Olga (who'd kept in touch with Anya but needed also to remain somewhat distant to protect Viktor's existence and parentage from unwanted speculation) in tow, that Dimitri was able to bully his way back in, whatever the brutish midwife had to say about it.

By then, it was too late.

He hadn't been expecting it, which made it worse. Viktor's birth, despite all the suffering that came afterwards with the discovery that he had inherited his uncle's disease, had been relatively easy. Anya had been up and at it not a day after, running to the baby's side even when everyone told her she needed rest.

No one was ever able to explain to Dimitri's satisfaction why she bled so much the second time, ten years later, or why Baby Marie didn't survive either.

At the time, he had pretty much collapsed from the shock. A kind of animistic roar had come out of his throat and – though he has no memory of whatever it is he tried to do – he does recall Vlad's thick arms holding him back.

Those are not pretty memories.

He doesn't want to be thinking about that. And he doesn't want Viktor harping on that too much either. Viktor doubtless mostly remembers a blubbering Sophie trying to explain that Mama was gone and that Papa wouldn't be coming downstairs; the shock was too great for him, so he'd been put in the guestroom until he calmed down. He and Viktor hadn't even laid eyes on each other again until the day of the funeral. Dimitri's not proud of that, looking back. Not one bit.

So he puts his arm around Viktor and guides him to the piano bench they've just uncovered. "Come on, you need to sit down. Stop putting weight on that joint."

The piano is a welcome distraction. Viktor loves it, and they don't have one in their new house.

He tries to play a few notes. "It's out of tune."

Dimitri promises they'll bring someone in to fix that soon.

There's a knock at the door.

Viktor looks curious; Dimitri looks like he might vomit.

"Wait here," he orders his son, stopping off at their luggage to grab the concealed pistol before answering the door.

Sure enough, the man at the door is the same one who's been following them. He's wearing that stupid fedora and those dead-giveaway shoes – the ones no local would wear, almost the same pair of boots Dimitri himself wore crossing the Russian border all those years ago.

Worse, with a boldness he's ready to shoot the bastard for, the man opens the unlocked door and begins to let himself in since no one has answered in a timely fashion.

Dimitri thrusts his arm out and pushes the man against the wall, pressing the gun to his head.

Their eyes meet, and to Dimitri's utter shock, the bewildered man murmurs, "Tchaïkovsky?"

There's only one place he used that name – to get a job at the House of Special Purpose.

This is one of the guards; he's sure of it.

But is this one of the monsters who murdered the Romanovs? Now here with the intent of harming Viktor?

He doesn't know.

"I might be," he growls.

"I don't understand." The man sounds broken, confused. "Why would you..." Something in his face seems to click. " _Oh_. You were _faking_ – you weren't really trying to hurt her sister, were you?"

"What?"

"Maria Romanov's little sister," he squeaks out, obviously all too aware of the gun to his head. "You were teaching her to make bread... You got angry, grabbed her..."

Dimitri is amazed. This is the _nice_ guard. The one with the bizarrely perfect manners. He looks different now, of course, less handsome (aging hasn't done the poor man many favors; his face is scarred and covered in worry-lines), but it's him.

What was it Anastasia called him?

" _Ivan_?"

"Yes, yes, I'm Ivan," the man blurts, his eyes growing moist. "Please, please just tell her I'm here – I need to see her. I beg you, let me see her just once. I'll go after that, I promise–"

Dimitri doesn't understand. _Her_? "There are no females in this house."

"But the little boy," Ivan stammers. "He looks just like her brother – Maria must be his mother."

"Maria?" he repeats, lowering the gun.

"I have reason to believe she survived that night," Ivan explains hurriedly, his eyes darting every which way. "I wasn't there – they sent me away because I gave her a birthday cake, which wasn't allowed. But I've been listening to rumors, searching all these years... They say nine years later she got married to a man who smuggled her over the border – I didn't know it was you, of course, but when I saw your son... I knew...it must be...isn't it?

"I don't want to ruin anything, I just want to see her alive one last time. I was in love with her, all those years ago."

Dimitri shakes his head. "You're too late, my friend."

Ivan reaches up to remove his fedora, revealing thinning silver where there was once gold on his head. "She's gone, then?"

"Five years," Dimitri tells him. "And it wasn't Maria – it was her little sister, Anastasia."

Ivan is amazed. Suddenly it must all make sense to him. "You were trying to help her – probably sneak a message to the family." This man was very likely in love with a Romanov girl, too, all those years ago. That makes them comrades in a whole new way.

Tears stream down Ivan's face as Dimitri nods. His quest is over. This isn't the ending he hoped for, but it's an ending all the same. Maria is gone, has been gone. Anastasia lived. Lived beyond that horrible night, anyway.

"Sorry about the gun," he says, panting a little. "You gave me the fright of my life."

"Think nothing of it, Alexander."

"My name's Dimitri."

"Oh. I see."

He makes him a generous offer. "Would you like to see where she's buried?"

* * *

Whenever they come, Viktor and Dimitri add white lilies to the growing bed already present on the grave marked by the stone which reads, most simply _Doushenka_ in deeply carved letters. No name, no birth-date. Nothing that could ever give her away or inspire some fool in the future to try and exhume her. Only the longer form of _Dusha_ , the endearment her husband so often called her by.

Ivan has mistakenly bought a white rose in place of yet another lily, which he places, as discreetly as he can manage, across the top of the tombstone.

He then kisses Viktor's hand, and exclaims, in Russian, "God bless you!"

This puzzles the boy, but Dimitri doesn't explain. At least not then.

Instead, he and Ivan wander off to talk in private for a little while, leaving Viktor sitting in the mulch at an awkward angle to finish planting his newest lily on the grave.

When Dimitri looks back to check on his son, he sees something remarkable.

A little white bat is sitting on the stone, and he swears it looks like Viktor is talking to it.

It couldn't be Bartok.

Bats don't live that long, do they?

Unless...

Unless Rasputin really did have mystic powers and the bat, as his familiar, isn't subjected to aging the way other animals are.

Still, he has to put his hand over his mouth to hold in his emotion.

Because, whatever it is, it _looks exactly_ like Alexei Romanov chatting amiably with Bartok – and that's a sight Dimitri never thought he'd see again.

"Life," Ivan whispers, though obviously he doesn't fully understand, "goes on."

"Yes." Dimitri breathes in the scent of lilies and watches his son and the white bat for a bit longer, his gaze overtly sentimental. "That it does."

The End


	54. Bonus Alternate Ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So this alternate ending is meant to (somewhat) represent my original idea for this fic's end in 2014 when I began writing it. This is why there is no mention of Gleb. Because he was based partially on the musical character, he did not exist in this story in 2014 as the musical wasn't a thing back then.
> 
> In this version, Bartok is never taken from Alexei and Dimitri is not separated from the Romanovs when he arrives in Yekaterinburg.

Dimitri awoke to a hand grasping his elbow and shaking his arm. The grip on his elbow was light, but the shake was no less urgent for it.

Opening his eyes and seeing Botkin hovering over him, his brow furrowed, forehead creased with concern, he assumed something was the matter with Alexei, and – leaping up from his cot – attempted to hurry to the door in what was – save for the dressing-grown he'd thrown over himself for modesty's sake – still a state of undress.

" _Nyet_." Botkin cleared his throat pointedly, and Dimitri stopped, his hand hovering over the doorknob for another second before dropping to his side when, glancing back, he perceived the smallest shake of the doctor's head.

 _Ah._ Not _Alexei, then._

Still, the question, in a lower, half-sleep, half-breathless voice: "What's wrong?"

Pushing his spectacles more firmly into place, up the bridge of his nose from where they'd slid – just a little ways – down it, Botkin said, "One of us has to wake the girls – Yurovsky is moving us."

Dimitri couldn't help it – he gawked. " _Now_?"

"So it would seem." There was a dry, tense edge to Botkin's voice.

That was when Dimitri noticed a letter – partially completed, left off in the middle of a sentence – on the small desk beside the narrow bed in which Botkin slept when the pain from his kidneys (bad again, as of late) subsided enough to let him rest, and when worries over the health of the former tsarevich and empress did not keep his eyes from shutting.

"Who were you writing?" he asked.

"My son," he said, rather quietly. "Did I ever tell you that you share a name?"

"He's called Dimitri, too?" It wasn't an uncommon name, not in Russia, but this still surprised him for whatever reason. "No. You never told me that."

"I also have a daughter called Tatiana," Botkin murmured. "Just like the grand duchess."

Bending over to quickly lace up his boots (best not keep the Bolshie guards waiting, lest they inspire their anger and unwittingly encourage them to inflict further petty cruelties on the Romanovs), Dimitri asked, "How could you leave them?" It was different for himself, staying on with the family – _he_ had no one else. The Romanovs _were_ his family. _Anastasia_ was his family.

The doctor shrugged his shoulders – an audible _pop_ springing from his slightly cramped, achy joints as he did so. "A man finds the strength when he must." Glancing down at his young charge, he took in Dimitri's puzzlement. "Ah. You still don't understand. Well, do you remember that time at Spala, when Alexei was about eight years old?"

Dimitri shuddered involuntarily. He did remember. Unlike Anastasia, he didn't remember each time Alexei was sick – there were simply too many for his mind to keep straight – but he remembered _that_ incident.

It was the worst, the most unforgettable.

"Of course." His tone, though remaining low, was almost indignant at being asked the question at all. It was akin, nearly, to being asked if he remembered how to _breathe_.

"The other servants put cotton in their ears," Botkin went on. "To block out his screams – they couldn't work and listen to Alexei's pain." He raised his eyebrows. "Even Alexandra Feodorovna gave you her blessing, if you needed to block it out – yet, you choose not to. Do you remember what you said to me when I delivered the Tsarina's message?"

He'd said he needed to keep his senses, no matter the strain, in case there was anything – at any point, however small – he could do for Alexei. It was his job, and he would not dull his senses and shrink from it.

"How did you find the strength to endure it? Those screams?"

"I found it because I had to."

"So it goes with me." Then, "After all, you could have chosen to leave the Romanovs, too – you had a choice. You could have gone home when the revolution started."

"Wherever _they_ are," he whispered, more to himself than Botkin, "is my home."

"I feel the same – even though, in my case, it meant great sacrifice." He grimaced. There was the sound of distant gunfire. "Now, will you be so kind as to rouse the girls before the guards grow upset?"

The good doctor had said 'upset' not 'dangerous', but somehow the words seemed genuinely interchangeable in this context.

* * *

Stepping into the room to wake the girls, all deeply asleep in their cots, Dimitri debated for a moment which cot to approach first. He almost went to Olga, since she was the eldest, thinking perhaps that she would want to take charge of getting the others organized, but that was more Tatiana – the Governess – and there was no way he was going to wake _her_ first. She would be scandalized, even now, he thought, to be roused by a lone manservant of Dimitri's age. If it had been Botkin, who being their doctor had seen them all before in their nighties, she wouldn't have made much fuss, but Dimitri was another matter entirely. Just like Alexandra – ever the prim Victorian Mama – she would be too overcome by the impropriety of the whole thing to ready herself as quickly as necessary. Better let one of her sisters deal with passing on the message.

So he went to Anastasia's cot and shook her arm the way Botkin had shaken his earlier.

Startled out of a feverish dream, she stretched her arm up and unintentionally clocked him in the face.

" _Ow_!" He had to cover his mouth with his hand to muffle the cry as the blow sent him staggering backwards into Maria's cot, which he bumped the back of his thigh against.

Maria sat up, rubbing her eyes and murmuring, "Is it time to get up already?"

Anastasia meanwhile grimaced at Dimitri. "Sorry. What's happened?"

"You all have to get up now," he told her. "Yurovsky's moving us."

"It's so _dark_ still," Maria mumbled, blinking at him. "Are we allowed to take anything?"

Dimitri told her he didn't think so, and Anastasia declared she wasn't leaving Pooka.

While Maria got up and started looking around for her shoes, insisting she had left them _somewhere_ near her cot, Dimitri tried to make his exit, saying he'd let them get dressed.

Unfortunately, that was the exact moment Tatiana woke up from the sounds of the conversation (Maria was being a little louder than she meant to) and exclaimed, "What's _he_ doing in here?" She pulled her blankets more securely around herself.

"Dimitri was just leaving," Anastasia said quickly. "Botkin sent him to wake us – Yurovsky's moving us all tonight."

Tatiana's pretty brow furrowed, but she got up and woke Olga anyway, just as Dimitri nodded and tried for the second time to leave the room.

"Where's Alexei?" she asked next, before his toe was even over the threshold. "Why aren't you with him?"

He explained, hastily, that Nicholas was getting the boy ready and that _he_ was under orders from Botkin to wait for them all in the hallway.

Tatiana accepted this, her demeanor gone from scandalized to dutiful as she started helping her sisters. Maria had popped a button on the blouse she was trying to put on; the seam on Olga's coat sleeve was torn; and Anastasia's hair, according to Tatiana's assessment, was frightful.

Twice, the guards came through the hallway and demanded to know what was taking the girls so long. Dimitri could only shrug and station himself as securely in front of the door as he dared until they left in an impatient huff.

The girls finally emerged, fully dressed, and all except for Anastasia – who was holding Pooka, of course – carried little handbags and pillows.

Botkin joined them on the landing, followed by Alexandra escorted by a maid named Demidova who Dimitri didn't know very well, and then Nicholas with a groggy Alexei in his arms.

As they all made their way down the stairs, Dimitri noticed a little white head poke itself out of Alexei's breast pocket. So he had smuggled Bartok out with him, it seemed. He hoped the guards wouldn't notice and get upset. Or simply decide to take the bat away from him as a slight.

Though, perhaps, with the sound of gunfire so near, they had other worries more pressing than how to inflict further misery on the Romanovs.

* * *

There were twenty-three steps down into the basement, where the guards led them.

"Stand here," Yurovsky started demanding, pointing in whichever direction he wanted each of them positioned. "Nicholas Romanov, over here, in front."

Alexandra wanted to know why there were no chairs.

Chairs were consequently brought out – only two, but chairs nonetheless. Still, Dimitri didn't like the look on the guards' faces as they did so, as if they were sharing some kind of nasty, unpleasant private joke between them.

Nicholas placed Alexei onto one of the chairs; Alexandra sank into the other. Botkin double-checked that Alexei was comfortable, gently straightening the position of his legs, and Dimitri took off his greatcoat and tucked it around the former tsarevich's lap as if for warmth, though it wasn't really very cold, being July. He just felt he ought to do _something_ for him – the boy was looking so pale.

Strangely, Alexandra, from her place, was giving Dimitri a withering look – almost of annoyance – when he parted with his greatcoat. Even the fact that it was given to Alexei, her precious Sunbeam, didn't seem to mollify her much.

Anastasia visibly grimaced at him as she bent over and placed the pillow Maria had carried behind their Mama's back to make her more comfortable.

He was never to learn the reason behind this. Never would Dimitri know that his greatcoat lining concealed a king's random of jewels, as did the corsets all four Romanov girls wore.

Alexei stifled a yawn and slipped a small black-bread crumb (heaven only knew where he'd saved it from) into his breast pocket for Bartok.

"Closer together, if you please," said Yurovsky, still motioning – emanating an eerie patience as he did so – with his hands.

Pooka growled; Anastasia tightened her grip on the agitated gray mutt. "What _for_?"

"We're going to take your picture."

Tatiana, lips pursed, asked why.

Yurovsky offhandedly replied that there were rumors the entire family had escaped. "We want to put an end to it," he finished, his tone flat.

Such ominous words, too. _An_ end _to it._ Just like that.

For a good while, despite just getting them into place and instructing them all not to move, Yurovsky then left with the other guards and left them alone.

Speculation flew back and forth between the girls.

"They're checking to see it's safe."

"They're getting the trucks ready."

Alexei agreed, insisting he heard a motor.

"I'm going to see what's taking them so long," Anastasia decided, marching toward the doors Yurovsky had exited by.

Alexandra was nonplussed. "You'll do no such thing – you will stay right here with the rest of us."

"It's locked anyway, Yurovsky's sure to have made certain," Maria reminded them, a little timidly, her tired cheeks reddening.

Anastasia complied, of course, but she did not return to the place where Yurovsky had stationed her and bade her to wait. In the only act of defiance she could manage right then, she instead went over to where Dimitri was standing and leaned next to him.

In all the anxiety, her parents either did not notice or much care.

Neither did they see that, when the guards and Yurovsky returned – with grim looks on their brutal, perhaps unintentionally _telling_ faces – Anastasia and Dimitri actually linked hands (she had shifted Pooka's weight onto only one arm, to make this possible) for a fraction of a second, their trembling fingers interlocking.

With a single, fluid movement, Yurovsky took a slip of paper from his greatcoat pocket. "I have been given new orders."

Nicholas nodded uncertainly. Alexandra asked, frowning, if they were not being moved after all.

Boktin's face clouded over with anxiety as he reiterated the former tsarina's question. "You're not taking us anywhere?"

"In view of the fact that your relatives in Europe continue their assault on Soviet Russia, the presidium of the Ural Regional Soviet has sentenced you to be shot." Yurovsky dropped the paper, letting it flutter to the floor. "An execution that will be carried out immediately."

"What? _What_?" cried Nicholas.

Fire was opened on him immediately.

Seeing their father murdered before their eyes, Olga and Tatiana clutched at each other, weeping.

Within moments, though, the former tsar and tsarina were dead and the rest of them were targets now, too.

Presumably, there was _meant_ to be an order of things, but the frenzy had caused all the guards to aim at Nicholas until he was no more. Now they shot anywhere, any which way, to kill anyone but themselves in the smokey basement room.

Dimitri knew he ought to be protecting Alexei, only the boy was too far away. It was Bartok, instead, who became – without a chance to be asked – the pitiful line of defense between the bullets and the former tsarevich. The shots aimed at his heart, got Bartok in his pocket first. There was a squealing sound to signal his end – and that was more noise than Pooka made as he died and Anastasia was forced to drop him.

So Dimitri flung himself in front of Anastasia, for all the good it could do against the endless attack.

He did not know he was even less protected than she, poor man. That the jewels the bullets might have glanced off and the bayonets mightn't have pierced through straight away were tucked around Alexei's lap, protecting only his bad leg and little else as he fell from his chair, gasping in pain.

The last thing Dimitri ever knew was that he was injured and falling backwards, and Anastasia, whom he knocked down behind himself, was crying on the floor and Maria – somewhere not too far off, closer to the back – was pounding on the double doors, screaming to be let out.

And that was all. There was no more.


End file.
